Berlinterview
by rukushaka
Summary: "There's only one person whose questions I'll answer, and you're not him." PACKAGE NOT DELIVERED. At the JCTC building in Berlin, the doctor assigned to evaluate Bucky Barnes resorts to drastic measures. Steve Rogers intervenes and finds himself in the position of having to interrogate his best friend. An alternate take on CA:CW. No slash.
1. Chapter 1: Broussard

**I don't own Marvel.**

 **Here we go. An alternate take on the Berlin Interview scene. Warning you now, it's dialogue- and character-heavy. 28,000 words, 9 chapters + epilogue, all pre-written. No slash. Updates every three days or so.**

 **I adore reviews. Enjoy.**

* * *

 _1\. Broussard._

Ross's psychologist stepped into the room where they were holding Bucky. The guards left, closing the door behind them. Steve watched on the screen as Broussard— slim, dark-haired, light-footed — set his briefcase on the table.

No sound, Steve noted. Outside the office, Tony and Nat seemed to be listening to an audio feed. Whatever was happening in Bucky's cell, they hadn't deemed it important enough to let the two renegades - _criminals -_ listen to it. Or T'Challa, for that matter: the Wakandan king sat in an adjacent office, showing no sign that he was listening or even watching the interview.

"The receipt for your gear," Sharon said behind him.

Steve didn't look away from the screen. The psychologist stood, one hand on the chair back, looking at Bucky with narrowed eyes. Bucky's head was down, chin hanging, shoulders slumped. But his eyes were cracked open. Bucky might not want to make eye contact with the shrink, but he wouldn't want to be blind to his movements, either.

Sam snorted. "Bird costume, really?"

"Come on, I didn't write it."

And then there was sound. Steve swung around, saw the trace of a smirk on Sharon's face, swung back in time to see Broussard nod to himself.

"Hello, Mr. Barnes. I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you. Do you mind if I sit?"

No response from Bucky. Steve would have been surprised if there had been. His old friend hadn't exactly been the most communicative since he'd appeared like a ghost in the tiny apartment in Bucharest. They might be in Berlin now, but it would take more than a change of scenery to make Bucky talk.

"Your first name is James?" Broussard sat and pulled out pen and notebook from his bag.

Again, no response.

The shrink's mouth twisted. He made a note on the page. Left handed, Steve noted.

"I'm not here to judge you. I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James?"

Bucky blinked, lashes dragging slowly on his cheeks. His gaze slid a foot to the left. He didn't open his mouth.

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."

Steve half turned away. He supposed Ross had to go through the motions, but it looked like a waste of time and effort. If Bucky didn't want to talk, there was nothing on earth that could make him. He could be as stubborn as Steve himself when he wanted to be.

Bucky's voice floated through his mind, Brooklyn drawl thick. _Where do you think I learned that from, huh, punk?_

"My name is Bucky."

Steve turned back to the screen, hardly daring to believe his ears. He hadn't been mistaken. Bucky had lifted his head, making brief eye contact with the shrink before looking away again. Was it Steve's imagination, or had his gaze lingered on the camera for a second? Did he know Steve was listening?

 _Bucky?_

 _Who the hell is Bucky?_

 _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._

If Bucky knew himself enough to correct the shrink on his name, did it follow that he knew who Steve was? Not just a man from a museum display, but his childhood friend? Had he been dodging the question when Steve asked him in Romania?

Of course he'd dodged the question. Two years on the run after seventy years as a brainwashed assassin with no sense of self… Steve shouldn't have expected anything else.

Hoped, maybe. But expected? No.

Peggy's voice floated through his mind, sharp and vivid. _Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He damn well must have thought you were worth it._

Broussard was talking again, firing questions, but Bucky remained silent. Steve sighed and turned away, frowning as he caught sight of the file on the table. A photo lay on top, a grainy black-and-white of the UN bomber. "Why would the task force release this photo to begin with?"

Sharon shrugged. "Get the word out, involve as many eyes as we can?"

"Right. It's a good way to flush a guy out of hiding. Set off a bomb, get your picture taken. You get 7 billion people looking for the Winter Soldier."

"You're saying someone framed him to find him."

Sam shifted in his seat. "Steve, we looked for the guy for 2 years and found nothing."

" _We_ didn't bomb the UN. That turns a lot of heads."

"So?" Sharon asked. "That doesn't guarantee that whoever framed him would get him. It guarantees that we would."

Steve looked back at the screen, at Broussard with his notebook, his laptop, his piercing stare. "Yeah." It didn't sit right.

And the psychologist was _still_ talking, oblivious to Bucky glaring at him from beneath lowered brows. He tapped at the laptop screen, frowned at whatever he saw there, and looked at Bucky again.

"Tell me… Bucky. You've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Bucky said, jaw clenched. He must know the precarious situation he was in — as if the cage wasn't enough of a clue — because he hadn't said what he was so clearly thinking, which was a succinct _F— off._

"You feel that… " Broussard spun a pen through his fingers, musing aloud. "That if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop."

Bucky looked away.

The shrink tapped at his screen again. Steve frowned. What was he looking at? Broussard shifted; Steve caught a glimpse of the screen over his shoulder, just long enough to read the words _regret to … delivery failed … will attempt to redeliver next day._ The laptop slammed shut.

"Don't worry," Broussard said. The pen came down on the desk with an emphatic _click._ "We only have to talk about one."

Bucky didn't so much as move an eyelash.

"Why don't you tell me what happened on December 16, 1991?"

 _That_ provoked a reaction. Bucky jerked in the chair. His eyes came up, a flash of something like fear shooting through them. And then he clamped his eyes shut.

Out in the common room, Tony was on his feet. Steve saw him wave an arm wildly, clearly shouting. He couldn't hear a thing through the glass. Ross shook his head sharply and snapped something, and Tony sank back into his seat, white-faced.

"Will you talk?" Broussard asked. His voice was deadly soft.

Bucky's metal hand trembled. "No."

"I would prefer not to force you."

"What the hell?" Steve demanded. "Force him? What does he mean?"

"Tell me about the night of December 16, 1991."

" _No_."

"It is imperative."

Silence.

"December 16, 1991. Do you remember it?"

"No."

"You don't have to lie. You have nothing to fear."

Bucky swallowed. He kept his eyes closed.

Broussard sighed. "Very well." He picked up something that looked a remote from the desk. "I did warn you."

He moved a dial on the remote and hit a button —

Bucky's back arched, teeth gritting, eyes opening to staring sightless at the ceiling for a moment —

And it passed. Bucky slumped, breathing heavily.

" _What the hell!_ " Steve shouted, turning to pin Sharon with a glare. "Did you know about that?"

Tony was on his feet again, Natasha at his side. Ross looked pissed off, but somehow triumphant at the same time.

Sharon shook her head, eyes wide. "It — it was a preventative measure only, I swear. We never — "

Bucky's laugh filled the room, dark and humourless. He sagged in his restraints, blinking at the ceiling. "You think pain will make me talk?"

"I would prefer," said Broussard, "not to do that again. But if you refuse to cooperate…"

Bucky turned his head and spat. "You're just like them." He glared at the shrink. "And let me tell you, it'll take a hell of a lot more than that to make me talk."

"Where is he?" Steve demanded.

Sharon spread her hands. "You can't — "

" _Where. Is. He?_ "

"Answer the question," Broussard said.

"No."

"December 16, 1991. Will you tell me what happened, or shall I press the button again?"

Bucky stared him down. When he spoke, his voice was low and angry. "There's only one person whose questions I'll answer. And you're not him."

Steve ran a shaking hand across his face. It meant something that Bucky trusted him above anyone. Of course it did. Even if Bucky was still figuring out who he was, who they both were to each other… _You're Steve. I read about you at the museum…_ it meant the world. But they'd never let him — never in a million years let him question Bucky, even if it could get them honest answers.

"I'm trying to help you. Bucky."

"By torturing me?"

"By… jogging your memory… shall we say."

"I'm not answering your questions."

Broussard stood and stepped closer to the cage. "But you will answer Captain Rogers'? Is that what you're saying?"

A muscle twitched in Bucky's jaw. He didn't reply.

"Unfortunately," Broussard said, "your Captain is not a registered psychiatrist. I am."

Silence.

"And, if I may be frank with you, it is well known that he is hardly the most… objective… when it comes to his Sergeant Barnes. What was your childhood like? It must have been very interesting to have fostered that level of codependency."

Steve snorted. _It's called The Great Depression, you idiot. And World War Two. Ring some bells?_

Bucky closed his eyes.

"No? You will not cooperate?"

"I won't answer your questions." He laid the slightest stress on _your._ "You can torture me all you want. Hydra did." He gulped a breath. "I'm used to it."

"I regret this. I really do." Broussard watched Bucky for a moment, eyes cold, and then pushed the button again.

Steve spun away, feeling sick. "Sharon!"

"There's nothing I can do! It's protocol, Steve! Not — not like this, but — "

"Stuff your protocol. Where is he?"

She looked from Steve to the screen, and back to Steve. Indecision flickered briefly, and then her expression firmed. "I never meant — "

" _Tell me where he is!_ "

"Sub-level five. East wing. Here — " She slipped the comm set from her ear and held it out. "Channel eight, you'll be able to hear him."

"Thank you. Sam — "

Sam was on his feet. "I'm coming with you. No telling what's going on down there."

Tony and Natasha were still arguing with Ross. Nobody in the outer room was watching them.

They sprinted for the door.

Channel eight, channel eight, where was it… there.

 _"_ Will you answer the question now, Mister Barnes?"

Down the hall, through the door, feet pounding down the concrete stairwell, come on, come on…

"I must have an answer, Bucky. Tell me what happened, and I won't have to push this button again."

Bucky growled something in Russian.

"In English, if you please."

Silence.

"Very well."

Bucky groaned, long and drawn out. But he didn't speak.

Steve found himself a full turn ahead of Sam, and still pulling ahead. Heart pounding in his chest, eyes barely focused on the ground before him, he spared every bit of concentration for the conversation.

"I take no pleasure in this, you know. But your answer is required for the evaluation. We cannot move on until we have an answer, you must see that."

Harsh panting filled the silence.

"Mister Barnes. Bucky. Please. Let me help you."

The panting died away.

There was a moment of stillness.

And Bucky drew a breath.


	2. Chapter 2: Hydra

**I don't own the Avengers.**

 **I'm updating this today because I won't have time tomorrow. I'm off to Armageddon (NZ geek convention).**

 **AND**

 **For those of you who followed _Hugs Are Not The Answer_ and voted for _Barton, Undercover_ to be posted next: I'll post the first chapter of that later today, too. Because Clint's not in this fic at all and I'd hate for you to get withdrawal symptoms. **

**Read and review :) Enjoy!**

* * *

 _2\. Hydra._

Steve's heart leapt. The sign for sub-level one went past in a blur of speed. _Nearly there, nearly there… just hang on, Buck. Two minutes. I'm coming for you._

"Sergeant," said Bucky.

"Sergeant?" Broussard repeated, startled.

"James. Buchanan. Barnes."

"Oh, I see."

"Three two. Five five. Seven oh three eight."

"This is not Kreischberg, Mister Barnes. I am not Arnim Zola. You are not a prisoner of war. And Steven Rogers is not coming to rescue you."

Steve bared his teeth. _That's what you think, pal._ He rounded the final bend and jumped the last flight, barreling through the door to the hall in a blur of speed.

"Sergeant James Bucha…"

The pair of soldiers posted in the outer room lifted their guns in warning. "Stop!"

"Steve Rogers, Captain America, Former Avenger," Steve gasped, hands raised to show he was unarmed. "Let me in."

"You've got no authorisation to be here, Captain."

"The hell I don't. You gonna shoot me, son? James Barnes is being tortured in there. You really want to get on my bad side?"

The soldiers glanced at each other.

Steve stepped forward and through the door, and as it swung shut behind him he heard Sam say, "Hey, boys. Looks like you're dealing with me now."

He took the room in at a glance: Bucky wild-eyed and panting in the cage, chest heaving, sweat standing out on his forehead, litany spilling from his lips; Broussard standing in front of him, remote in hand, oblivious to Steve's entry.

He didn't bother announcing his presence. Just spun Broussard with a hand on his shoulder, knocked him out with a single punch, kicked the door open and sent him flying out into the antechamber. Sam could clean up the mess.

Then he locked the door and came back to stand as close to the glass as he could. "Bucky."

Bucky blinked, glazed eyes fluttering around the room before settling on Steve. The panting slowed and settled, as did the shaking hands.

Steve waited until his gaze was clear and alert once more.

"Do you need a medic?"

"I've had worse." Bucky's breathing was ragged, his voice rough. Not hoarse, not yet, but on the way there.

Steve cast an assessing gaze over him, estimating heart rate and pain levels, drawing on his memories of Bucky during the war and knowledge of his own super soldier physiology to determine the damage. "That's not what I asked."

Bucky stared right back, eyes shuttered. "It'll pass."

"Answer the question."

"Or what? You gonna push the button like he did? Make me scream until I tell you how bad it really hurts? I'll tell you this: the pain ain't nothing compared to the knowledge that your _allies_ put me here."

Without looking away, Steve stamped on the end of the remote, caught it as it flipped into midair, and squeezed it into a mess of plastic shards and twisted metal. "That good enough for you?"

That muscle ticked in Bucky's jaw again. He didn't reply.

"Do you need a medic?" Steve asked again.

Blue eyes flitted away. Flinched. Came back to rest on Steve. "I don't — no."

"You don't know?"

"No. I don't need a medic. That was… child's play."

"It still hurt you."

"Yeah."

And that was that. Case closed, end of story. Steve wanted to yell at someone. Or hit someone. Preferably Broussard. He settled for dropping what remained of the shattered remote and grinding it to powder under his boot. Bucky watched him, eyes darting from Steve's face to the floor and back again. The shuttered look faded into uncertainty, and then into neutrality.

Better than nothing. It might be as good as he was going to get. Time to pop the question before Ross got impatient and sent more goons down this way.

"Do you remember me?"

Bucky ducked his head, but not fast enough: Steve saw the trace of a pained smile on his face. " _This is not Kreischberg_ ," Bucky said, mimicking Broussard's accent perfectly. " _Steven Rogers is not coming to rescue you_. What the hell does he know?"

Mindful of the cameras, Steve kept his reaction to a minor slump in relief. And then smiled until he thought his face would split in two, because _yes_ Bucky was back. "Clearly he didn't do his research. It's what I do. Steve Rogers, rescuing Bucky Barnes since 1943."

Bucky looked up, almost rolling his eyes. "Get in line, punk. Bucky Barnes, rescuing Steve Rogers since 1929." The smile faltered and fell. He frowned.

"What is it?"

"Thought you were meant to be locked up somewhere."

"I was."

"Don't tell me you broke out."

Steve winced.

Bucky groaned. " _Damn it._ Steve. You're doing yourself no favours, you know that?"

"I don't care."

"You should."

"You're more important."

"You're supposed to be Captain America! Captain America does not break out of prison!"

"It wasn't prison, it was an office. Well — okay, it might have been a sort of — unofficial prison."

"Moron," Bucky said, without any real heat.

"And Captain America might not break out of prison, but Steve Rogers does."

Bucky shook his head. "No, Steve Rogers breaks _in_ to prison to rescue Bucky Barnes. You think they don't know that?"

"Who?"

"Them! Everyone! Hydra, Shield, what's the difference these days? You think they don't know that Steve Rogers would die for Bucky Barnes, and vice versa? You think they don't know how to spin that to their advantage?"

"I can take care of myself," Steve said. He kept his voice level. Steady. Calm. A deliberate counterpoint to the shouting. Bucky never used to have mood swings. He never used to do a lot of things. A lot had changed in seventy years. "And so can you."

"How long's it gonna be before I'm taken out to get back at you, huh? Or you're taken out to get back at _me?_ Maybe the shrink was right about the codependency!"

"It's not codependency."

"Then what is it?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Friendship, you jerk."

 _"_ I killed a lot of people. Lots of families ain't too happy about it."

"It wasn't you."

Bucky's breathing settled. His eyes slid away. "My finger on the trigger. Or the knife. Or the neck." The words were quiet.

"It wasn't your fault."

"I know." His nostrils flared. "But I did it. They're going to want to blame someone."

"Then they can blame Hydra. Blame Pierce. Karpov. Zola. Not you."

He shuddered. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say the name."

Steve paused. "Which name?"

"Very funny."

"There were four names there. Although we can probably narrow it down to three 'cause you didn't have a problem saying Hydra before."

"Zo… Z…." Bucky choked on air. "Arn… Arn… Arrnnnnnyah… no."

"It's okay."

"Kreischberg," he ground out after a moment. "After Azzano. Him."

Interesting. "The shrink said his name before."

"It's different. When you're here." The twist to Bucky's mouth wasn't exactly a smile. "Brings back memories. Not pleasant ones."

Steve nodded. Bucky was starting to look a little cornered, eyes roving around the room. He wandered back to the desk to give Bucky some space. "You never told me what happened. When they took you to isolation." Tap, tap, at the laptop. What had Broussard been looking at?

"And I never will."

"Secrets, Buck?"

"Yep."

He affected a wounded look.

Bucky eyeballed him.

Steve shrugged and dropped the act. Tap. Tap. Package not delivered, what was that about? "Why not?"

Bucky took a breath. "Because it would hurt you."

That… wasn't the answer he was expecting. "What?"

"It would hurt you," Bucky said again. "Knowing what happened. And I've hurt you enough for one lifetime. I'd rather not do it again."

"You can't protect me from everything."

"I can protect you from this."

"Even if it kills you inside?"

"They're ghosts," Bucky said softly. "They don't need to haunt you, too."

Steve bent his head to rummage through Broussard's briefcase. He didn't know that he agreed with that. They could share the load, couldn't they? Let's see… pens, breath mints, another notebook. He drew it out. Nice. Hardback, red leather cover, and…

Bucky drew a sharp breath.

And a star on it to match the one on Bucky's arm.

"Bucky?" Steve flicked through the book. "It's Cyrillic of some kind."

No response.

He looked up. Bucky huddled into himself, flinching as far from Steve as he could get with the restraints, head turned away, eyes clenched shut.

"Buck?"

"Get rid of it." The words wavered. "Now. Please. Steve."

"What is — "

" _Now._ Don't read it, don't show it to me, don't do anything except burn it to ashes. It's Hydra."

Steve whistled. That explained certain things that hadn't added up about the interview _._ The _package undelivered_ notice must have forced Broussard's hand. "I can't destroy evidence."

"It's a manual," Bucky rasped. "For the handlers. _My_ handlers. You really want to leave that lying around and see what happens when someone comes along who can read Russian? Everything's in it. _Everything._ Training instructions, code words — " He broke off, eyes flying open, and swore. "Code words." He met Steve's gaze, horrified. "He was going to trigger me."

Steve clenched his jaw. He threw a look at the nearest camera, knowing Tony would see it for the imperative it was. "It's okay, Buck. We've got him. You're safe."

"You're not." Bucky leaned forward as much as he could, eyes wild. "You have to destroy it. _Please._ "

"I can't."

" _Steve_."

Steve dropped his face into his palm. He knew that voice. That was Bucky's _Sergeant Barnes calling out the Captain for doing something stupid_ voice. "What?"

"Don't make me pull rank."

"I'm your Captain. You can't pull rank."

"I'm your NCO. It's my job to keep you alive. And holding onto that book? That's a good way to _die_. Do you want to die?"

"No!"

"Do you want me to kill you?"

"Of course not!"

"Because that's what'll happen if you let that book leave the room. Hydra will get their paws on it eventually — maybe not this year, maybe not this decade, but what's that to us, huh? — and they'll trigger me, and _you won't get me back._ " He made a noise almost like a sob. " _I_ won't get me back. I'll kill you, and I'll never wake up again. Ever. Don't make me go back to that. Steve. _Please._ I can't — I can't kill you. Don't make me."

Someone rapped on the door.

Steve tensed and pivoted. Ross must have sent his goons down here to take him back up to the cell. And no doubt they'd send another shrink in to question Bucky, and they'd probably start _torturing_ him again, and the book was still here, he hadn't destroyed the book, why hadn't he burned it when he had the chance?

He didn't have matches or a lighter, that was why.

He couldn't lose Bucky, not now.

"I won't talk," Bucky said behind him. "I told him. Not to anyone else. Can't trust them."

Another knock, more impatient than the first.

"Steve," Bucky breathed.

Steve waved him to silence.

Was that all the time they'd give him? He'd barely started questioning Bucky!

Although, to be fair, most of the questions weren't in line with whatever psychiatric evaluation stuff they probably had in mind.

He tucked the book under the belt at the small of his back. He'd need his hands free for this. A quick scan of Broussard's gear turned up nothing more useful than the pens. If it came down to a fight, he'd do more damage with his bare hands than cheap Bic plastic.

And then he prowled across the floor, keeping himself between the door and Bucky, and unlocked the door.

Cracked it open.

Sam's face appeared in the gap, sweating a little but otherwise calm. "Hey, man."

"What's happening?"

"They, uh." Sam tapped his ear, where an earpiece sat. "They want you to keep questioning him."

"What about the shrink?"

"Broussard's gone, they've locked him away in a cell somewhere — a proper cell, not an office like we had." He grinned unexpectedly. "For a prisoner, Barnes has got some pull. They know he's not going to talk to anyone but you. Guess they figure whatever he says is more valuable than him saying nothing at all."

Steve nodded. "That was the idea."

"Channel thirteen."

"What?"

Sam tapped his earpiece again. "They want to feed you questions."

Huh. "No guarantees." He flicked his borrowed earpiece to channel thirteen anyway. "How did Broussard get the notebook in here?"

"He would've gone through a security check to get in, but… it's not metal, it's not visibly a weapon. Tony can check the video feeds."

"It's a weapon." Steve fought down the anger. "He would have triggered Bucky. Turned him back into Hydra's mindless assassin."

"I heard." Sam's glance was sympathetic. "You sure you don't want someone in there with you?"

"I'm sure."

"Just you and him?"

"Me and him," Steve confirmed. "No guards. No guns. He has to be safe. They want him to talk, it has to be just the two of us."

"And if he flips out?"

"He won't."

"Steve." Sam shot him an exasperated look. "I'm just saying — "

"He won't flip out. He's my best friend."

"He's the Winter Soldier. You're Captain America. Doesn't matter what you were, both of you, seventy years ago. That's not what they're seeing upstairs. They're seeing one of our best left alone in a room with Hydra's deadliest. We gotta be careful here."

Steve shot a look back over his shoulder. Saw Bucky looking. Turned back to Sam. "Yeah, I — I get that. But you've got my back just as well out here as you would in there. I'll scream if I need you."

Sam sighed. "Alright." He stepped away for a moment. Steve heard a muttered conversation, and then Sam was back. "Here." He passed a lighter through the gap.

"They want me to destroy the book?"

"Yeah."

"It's evidence."

"It's dangerous. Barnes is right. We can't keep it around."

Steve flicked the lighter. Watched the flame waver. Capped it again. "Okay." He turned away.

"Hey," Sam said.

"Yeah?"

"You need anything?"

Steve raised an eyebrow. "I would say I need Bucky out of the cage, but I think we both know the answer to that. Out of the _chair_ would be a good start. He doesn't like being strapped down. Gets antsy if he can't move around."

"I'll talk to the brass." Sam grimaced. "I can't promise anything. Winter Soldier, you know. Vienna. Mass murderer."

"He didn't do it."

"They don't know that."

"I'll talk to him."

"Good."

"Coffee?"

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Sam."

"Welcome."

Steve shut the door. He left it unlocked this time. With Sam to watch his back… yeah, that felt better. The tension wasn't crawling up his neck as much as it had been.

"Who was that?" Bucky asked, voice tense.

Steve dropped the lighter and the book on the desk. "Sam Wilson. The Falcon. Two tours in Afghanistan, pararescue. He's a friend. And an Avenger."

Bucky frowned. He stared at the wall, blinking, face screwed up in a grimace as he chased down memories. After a minute, his expression cleared. "The guy with metal wings. Solid kicker."

"That's him."

"I broke his wings. Threw him off the helicarrier."

Steve's lips twitched. "You did. He's forgiven you. I think."

"You trust him?"

"I trust him."

Bucky relaxed. "Okay."

Steve picked the book up. Flicked through it again, knowing without looking that Bucky had slammed his eyes shut again. He couldn't read any of it. But now, if he had to, he could transcribe fragments of the writing, thanks to his near-photographic memory.

He picked up the lighter and turned to the nearest camera. "Tony."

Silence in his earpiece for a moment, and then Tony's voice came through clear. "Yeah, Cap?"

"I need you to confirm that order to destroy the book."

"What, you don't trust Wilson's word?"

"I do. But I need confirmation from someone who isn't allegedly a criminal, which rules out the three of us down here."

"Smart."

"Thanks."

"You can still sign them, you know," Tony said quietly. "The Accords."

"Are you confirming the order or not?"

He sighed. "Yeah, yeah. May 23rd, 2016: Tony Stark, Iron Man, confirming Deputy Task Force Commander Everett Ross's order for Steve Rogers, Captain America, to destroy the creepy red book that Doctor Theo Broussard somehow smuggled in to the interview with James Barnes, Winter Soldier. Go ahead, Cap."


	3. Chapter 3: Vienna

**I don't own it.**

 **Thanks for the reviews so far! Glad you're enjoying it.**

 **I've posted the first chapter of Barton, Undercover - you should go check that out. If you like hurt/comfort (and, well, you're reading Berlinterview, so that's probably a yes) then you'll definitely want to read Barton, Undercover.**

* * *

 _3\. Vienna._

Steve uncapped the lighter and lit it up. "Bucky. You want to watch this?"

Bucky had his head tipped back against the headrest. He didn't open his eyes. "I _want_ to, yeah. But I don't know if I should."

Oh. "You think they might have — "

"Don't know. And I'd rather not find out."

"Right. I'll make this quick, then." Steve brought the flame to a corner of the book, waited until it caught, left it another half-second, and then dropped the book to the floor.

And watched as it burned, paper shrivelling and turning black and crumbling to ash. He'd almost expected it to be fireproof, knowing Hydra and how careful they were with their documentation. But it looked like he'd guessed wrong this time.

When the fire died down, he ground his foot into the cinders a few times for good measure, then tore a clean page out of Broussard's notebook, scooped up the ashes, folded the whole thing into a makeshift envelope and set it on the desk.

"Okay, it's gone."

Bucky cracked his eyes open. His gaze went to the paper. He swallowed. "Good."

"They want me to ask you questions."

"Figured they would. That's why the shrink was here, right?"

"Yeah." Steve moved the straight-backed chair from the desk to the ground in front of Bucky, flipped it around, and straddled it, propping his arms along the back. "They want to know about Vienna."

"December 2nd," Bucky said.

"What?"

"1943. We were in Vienna." Bucky smirked at Steve, that familiar mulish set to his jaw. He wasn't going to make this easy.

Steve sighed. "Buck."

"Weren't we?"

If Steve hadn't been watching so closely, he wouldn't have seen the flicker of doubt cross Bucky's face.

Honest memories. How much did he remember from before Hydra? Or during Hydra, even? Steve didn't know. They needed answers, but he couldn't deny Bucky this. "We were, yeah. Had orders to retrieve some intel with as few casualties from either side as possible. We made it in and out in six hours with no fatalities."

"I remember…" Bucky's forehead creased. "Someone got shot? One of us. I think. I remember digging a bullet out of their shoulder. After. And yelling at them."

Of course he had to remember _that_. "That was me," Steve said.

"What happened?"

"You don't recall?"

Bucky tipped his head in the equivalent of a shrug. "I get fragments. Emotions. I was pissed off. Frightened out of my wits. If it had been a blue ray, you would've been —" He broke off. Swallowed. "You were bleeding a lot. Hurting. Trying not to show it, 'cause you're the Captain. But I could tell. I don't know how you got shot."

Steve lifted a hand to rub his temple. "It was an early mission. We weren't quite the cohesive team that history remembers yet. I was still learning how to be responsible for the unit, not just for myself. I had an opening. Charged in. Surprised them, but there were more hostiles waiting than we'd been warned about. I took most of them down. One of them got in a lucky hit. You took him out with a bullet to the kneecap— long distance, you were our sniper."

"I know _that_."

"Then the rest of the Howlies arrived and it was clear run until we left the city. You met up with us and saw the blood and starting shouting."

Bucky rolled his eyes and drawled, his sarcasm as thick as the accent, "Gee, Stevie. I wonder why."

"I know, I know." Steve shook his head, grinning. "Shut up."

"It's not like I had a year's active combat experience on you or anything. You know what they say about inexperienced officers who don't listen to their NCOs."

"Yeah, they don't last long." Steve caught Bucky's eye. "And I wouldn't have. Without you."

"Someone's gotta watch your scrawny back. You're rubbish at checking your flank, you know."

"Sam's told me the same thing."

"Sam?"

"Sam Wilson. Guy with the wings, remember?"

"Memory's not _that_ bad." Something glinted in his eyes.

Steve huffed a laugh. "Are you jealous?"

"No," Bucky said, swift and sincere. "Grateful, in fact. Damn glad someone's got your back." He looked away, jaw working. "Grateful he was there for you when I wasn't."

In his ear, Tony cleared his throat. Steve nodded. Time to get this show back on track, before they got mired in even more sentimentality. Ross's patience would only hold out so long. He had no illusions about that. "Vienna," he prompted. "2016, not 1943."

Bucky didn't look up. "I told you, I wasn't there. I don't do that anymore."

"They have you on camera. Or someone who looks like you."

"Prosthetics. Easy enough to fake. There're a lot of six foot tall white guys with dark hair in the world."

"He really did look like you."

"I wouldn't be dumb enough to get caught on camera. Half the world didn't even know the Winter Soldier existed until two years ago. He was a ghost. Invisible. _I_ was invisible."

"We figured. If he was on camera… it was because he wanted to be on camera."

Bucky looked up sharply. "Get everyone looking for me."

"Flush you out of hiding."

Bucky swore. "This is why I left in the first place. So they couldn't use me to pull stunts like that. I don't — Steve, you gotta believe me. I don't do that. Any of it. Anymore. I have enough trouble remembering my own name, I'm not about to go out bombing UN buildings!"

"I know," Steve said. His heart ached. Bucky thought he had to convince _Steve_ that he'd never do a thing like that? Ouch. "I believe you, Buck. But it's not me you have to convince."

"I haven't even left Romania in the last ten months."

"You got a passport we can check?" It would be weak enough proof.

From the look on his face, Bucky knew it. "Yeah. I do. But they're never going to believe that. Fake papers are a dollar apiece."

"Worth a shot. Where is it?"

"In my pack. Wherever that is." A spasm crossed his face, frustration and something deeper.

Steve leaned forward, frowning. "What's wrong?"

"My pack. I had… there are things in it. I need them."

"Weapons?"

"Notebooks." Bucky hunched in on himself again. If his arms had been free, Steve could tell he would have crossed them over his chest. "I… wrote everything down. These last two years. As the memories came back."

Steve waited.

"It's not much, sometimes. Emotion connected to an image. A smell that sends me back fifty years. A couple of words that I know are related, but I don't know _how_ they're related _,_ so I write them down and hope they'll come back to me eventually. Or a whole day slots into place, weeks of missions, nights looking after you when you were sick…" He took a breath. "I could've gone years without hearing that rattle in your chest again. Felt so damn helpless. I hate it. But it's better than not knowing."

What else did he think was _better than not knowing?_ If even half the files they'd found scattered throughout the Hydra bases were accurate… Steve wasn't sure he could bear it.

"Some of them hit in the middle of the night with no warning and I wake up hours later with a knife in my hand. Most of them aren't pretty. But they're all I've got. I wrote 'em all down, the good and the not so good."

"We'll get the notebooks back. Ross took our gear, too. Gave us a receipt for it, all official and proper."

"Bet he didn't give you one for the bag."

"No, but it's not my pack." Steve eyed Bucky, watching his jaw tense. "What else was in it?"

Bucky smiled, a touch ruefully. "Food. Water. Weapons."

"Such as…?"

"Knives, mostly. A couple handguns. Lockpicks. That sort of thing. Hydra's gonna come looking for me; I was surprised they hadn't found me already. It's been two years. I ain't going down without a fight." He shivered and met Steve's gaze. "I'm not going back to them, Steve. Not again. I'll die first."

Steve gripped the back of chair. "It won't come down to that."

"Won't it?"

"No."

"They won't let me go that easily. You saw. The shrink had the notebook, he would have triggered me. They want me back."

Steve looked up at the camera. Looked back at Bucky. "They can't have you."

"I'm valuable. To them. Dangerous."

"Let me rephrase that. _I won't let them_ have you."

"They didn't spend seventy years perfecting a weapon to let it walk away scot-free."

His detached tone was starting to drive Steve mad. Bucky was so _disconnected_ from it all. So matter of fact. _Weapon_. _Dangerous_. _Valuable_. Objective terms for someone who was still learning to be human. "You're not a weapon. You're a person."

"Person to you. Weapon to them." Bucky did that facial equivalent of a shrug again. "Probably a weapon to your people upstairs, too."

"You're my best friend."

"I'm not your Bucky."

Steve nearly choked. "What do you mean?"

"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038. I'm not him. Not really. I've got some of his memories, that's all. I don't know how to be him." A crease appeared between Bucky's brows. "I don't know if I can ever be him. Me. Whoever I was. Before."

Oh. That's what he meant. "I know you're not Bucky from 1945. I don't expect you to be. And I know you're not the Winter Soldier, either."

"Trying real hard not to be." Bucky's nostrils flared. "Who do you want me to be, then?"

"Who do _you_ want to be?"

Bucky stared at him blankly.

"It's your choice, Buck."

"Ch — " Bucky made a strangled noise. "Choice."

"Yeah."

" _Choice._ You… you…" He shook his head.

Steve watched in alarm as he started shaking. "Whoa, hey, calm down, it's okay — "

"Choice," Bucky said again, in a voice little louder than a whisper. "You really… you… Steve." There was something almost like loathing in his expression. "You don't have a clue, do you?"

 _You still don't have a bloody clue about women, do you?_

"Buck?" Self-loathing, Steve realised with a lurch. That was self-loathing in Bucky's eyes.

"Do you know — " Bucky's voice was thick with tears. His eyes shone, too bright, too wet. "Do you know how many years it's been since someone gave me a _choice?_ "

"Seventy. Give or take a few. But you can make your own choices now. Can't you?"

"Most days."

Which meant there were still days he couldn't. Steve felt it like a punch to the gut. "So," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "you can choose who you want to be."

"I like plums," Bucky said abruptly.

Steve blinked. "That's… good."

"It is good. It implies there's a _me_ somewhere in here. A _me_ who can do normal things, human things, like prefer one food over another."

"Of course there's a _you_ in there."

"But who am I?"

The words chimed deep inside him, setting off a memory so sharp and vivid that Steve couldn't help himself. He started laughing.

Bucky blinked, taken aback. "Steve?"

"English," Steve gasped. "Your last year of high school. There was — "

"That production," Bucky said. Miraculously, his expression cleared. A smile played about his lips. "I remember."

"And you — you — " Steve took a breath, trying to control the laughter.

Bucky snorted. "Oh yeah." His voice slid into a perfect imitation of Peggy's English accent. "Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me… who I am?" He chuckled. The chuckle spread into fully-fledged laughter. He tipped his head back against the chair and howled with laughter, teeth gleaming.

Steve drank in the sight. Caught his breath on the sudden backlash of emotion. Committed the play of light and shadow and sheer _joy_ to memory. He'd sketch it later.

Bucky might be in a cage, but he'd never been more free.

Bucky's laughter died away. "I remember," he said, voice husky. "I remember."

"That's a good start." Steve's chin wobbled. A lump formed in his throat.

"Steve?"

"I…" He ducked his head. Huffed a breath. "Sorry."

"Hey, it's okay." Bucky had slid back into the tone he'd used to calm Steve down when they were kids: slow and rock-steady. Did he even realise he was doing it? "It's okay. What is it?"

Steve blinked back tears and made himself look up, meeting Bucky's concerned gaze. "I missed you. Is all."

Bucky's answering smile was just as watery. "Missed you too, punk."

"You were _dead_. I — I watched you fall. You _screamed —_ " He gulped air. Forced his thoughts away from the ravine. "Like it was yesterday. It's in my head like it was yesterday. It's been five years, or seventy five, depending on who you ask, and now you're not dead, and I… You're _right here,_ and I still can't — " He groaned and buried his heads in his folded arms.

"It's okay," Bucky murmured. "Steve, hey. I'm here, okay? I'm here. Not going anywhere."

"Yeah."

"How long was it?"

Steve turned his head to the side so Bucky could hear him better. "Between you dying and me going down? Three months. And a bit. It was… I lost track somewhere in there." He lifted his head, jaw working, and saw Bucky's frown. "Tried to get drunk, after. First night we were back in London. Stupid. Should've realised…"

"Metabolism won't let you?"

"Yeah. I left off once I realised I could drink out every pub in the city and not feel a thing. Figured I should leave that for the ones who needed it."

Bucky's frown deepened.

"It's okay," Steve said. He remembered the cameras and flushed. Great. Tony would either be laughing his head off at finding that Captain America wasn't perfect after all, or staring at the screen looking like a kicked puppy. Or maybe he was on the phone organising a therapist. _Super_ great. "We're not here to talk about me. Tell me about Bucharest."

"Not much to tell."

"Try me."

Bucky eyed him for a long moment. "Steve — "

" _Bucharest_ , Buck."

"We're coming back to this." Bucky's voice was hard as vibranium.

Non-negotiable. Steve knew the signs of Bucky digging his heels in. The battle wasn't worth the war. "Fine. Later." He drummed his hands on the back of the chair and stood, suddenly restless. "Tell me about Bucharest."


	4. Chapter 4: Bucharest

**I don't own it.**

 **Sorry in advance for the cliffhanger. ;)**

 **Enjoy! I'm loving your reviews! It's so good hearing what you think as the story progresses.**

* * *

 _4\. Bucharest._

* * *

"Fine." Bucky nodded. "Bucharest it is. What do you want to know?"

Steve strode across to the wall, pivoted, strode back. "Everything. Did you live in that pokey apartment the whole time, how did you get money, how much do you remember, do you have friends there, why _did_ you pull me out of the river — ?"

"Steady on, pal. One question at a time."

Fair enough. Steve waved a hand. "Take your pick, then. No, wait. Answer the last one first. Why did you pull me out of the river when the helicarrier went down?"

"That's not about Bucharest."

Steve stared him down until he gave in.

"I told you already, I don't know." But it wasn't a flat refusal, Steve could see that. Bucky tipped his head, thinking. "I… " His eyes slid closed, mouth screwing up in a grimace. "I don't know if I can explain it. It… It's not something that really works. With words. I guess… what happened was, the mission objective changed."

"The objective?" Steve asked. "You mean killing me?"

"Yeah. It was like… a switch flipped in my head. One second you were just another target, and then — and then you were _you,_ you were _Steve._ I didn't know who Steve was but I knew he was important. More than important. Imperative. But you didn't have your shield and you were falling and unconscious and you would have _died._ And I couldn't let that happen. Can't let that happen. You were still the target, but mission wasn't _kill_ anymore. It was _protect._ "

Steve nodded, absorbing that. "Alright. So you jumped in and dragged me out?"

"Yeah."

"And then walked away." He'd be lying if he said that didn't hurt.

At the time, he'd been in pain both physically and emotionally, and only half-conscious. Bucky's absence had manifested itself less as absolute knowledge and more as vague awareness. And then he woke up in hospital and realised that he'd gotten through to Bucky after all, that Bucky _hadn't_ killed him, had pulled him from the river — and had walked away. Left him alone. Again.

He wasn't ashamed to admit he'd cried. Who wouldn't, when their best friend had come back from the dead, thrown off seventy years of mental conditioning, rescued them, and then vanished again like the ghost so many people thought he was?

"No," Bucky said.

"What?"

"I checked that you were breathing first. Rolled you onto your side so you wouldn't choke on your vomit. I started to leave. Stopped to pop my arm back into the socket — "

Steve winced.

" — and _then_ walked away."

He said it so calmly. But his eyes flickered sideways as he spoke. It was a tiny micro-movement, something that cameras probably even wouldn't pick up on.

But Steve did. "It hurt you."

"Walking away? Yeah."

"I thought…"

"It had only hurt you?" Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Why, because you remembered and I didn't? You _named_ me, Steve. You gave me back my identity, the first faint inkling of who I was — who I am. Of course it hurt me to walk away."

"So why did you?"

"Would've hurt worse to stay. Even then, I think I knew I wouldn't go back to Hydra. They were gonna come looking. I couldn't protect both of us, not injured like that. You needed a hospital, not an amnesiac assassin who could flip out at any moment. I didn't know who I was. Didn't know who you were — to me."

Irrationally, a lump rose in Steve's throat. "And you do now?"

"More or less. Most days more. Some days… a lot less."

Now _that,_ he'd expected. Even Bucky Barnes, legend that he was, couldn't emerge unscathed from decades as a brainwashed killer Hydra-bot. Steve cleared his throat. "That's only to be expected. Where'd you go then?"

"Places," Bucky said neutrally. His eyes went to the cameras and then back to Steve. Something eased in his expression. "Brooklyn, eventually. Thought it might jog some memories. It didn't."

Steve had done that, too, the week after he woke up in the twenty-first century. "Yeah, it's changed a lot. Not much left from last time we were there."

"England after that. France. Italy, Switzerland, Germany. Austria." His face darkened. "That was… possibly a mistake."

"Oh?"

"Hydra had a base there."

"In Austria?" Steve frowned. They'd covered this earlier. Had Bucky forgotten about Zola already? "A dozen or so bases, yeah. Kreischberg, Muhr, Rotgulden, Widdersbergalm — "

"I don't mean during the war." The words were whisper-soft. Bucky's eyes were hard and cold. "I mean two years ago. They had a base at Lindlalm. I didn't remember until I hit the border, but I'd been there before. They used it for… recalibration."

Oh. His gut clenched and sank. "You went back."

"Briefly."

"And?"

Bucky's smile was sharp and not entirely happy. "The base isn't there now."

Steve would have thought that would be a good thing. He paced the width of the cage front and paused, looking at the wall, carefully _not_ looking at Bucky. He kept his voice level, free of either censure or praise. "You don't sound ecstatic about it."

"I — " There was a huff of indrawn breath. "It was hard. I don't like — killing — now that I have the choice. But they were trying to kill me, and being there… it was too easy. To slip back into the old headspace, to let the Asset back inside my head. I _tried —_ " _H_ e broke off. The servos in his metal arm whined. "I tried," he went on after a moment. "To fight it. To find a, a balance. I swear I did. But. Like I said. Mistake. Maybe."

"What happened?" Steve turned his head a fraction, needing to see Bucky, to know that he was okay.

Bucky shook his head, staring at the floor with sightless eyes. "I remember…" A crease formed between his brows. "Blood. Death. I remember finding the chair, and I remember seeing it… after. Shattered. Broken. Doing to it what it had done to me so many times. I remember the smell of burning." He blinked. Some of the old awareness crept back into his gaze. "I made it out before I forgot myself completely. Holed up in a hunter's cabin not far away. Lost about a week there. To the memories. Nearly lost my feet, too."

Steve turned to face him fully, alarm lancing through him. A cabin _not far_ from the Hydra base he'd destroyed wasn't nearly far enough, not when reinforcements would come looking. And to lose himself — to lose _an entire week_ — in his own head… Steve gritted his teeth, tamping down on the panic. "What do you mean, you nearly lost your feet?"

"Frostbite."

He couldn't stop his gaze from dropping to Bucky's shoes. Dark brown Rockports. They'd fit in just as well on a city street or a mountain trail. Not snow-proof for long periods of time, though.

Bucky rolled his eyes. "It didn't hang around, stop worrying. I must've taken my boots and socks off when I first got into the cabin. Woke up and my toes were white. Couldn't stand. Couldn't stop shivering. The cabin had a weatherproof hot water tank, thankfully. I dragged myself to the shower. Rubbed a bit of circulation back into my feet, got them warmed up. My system took care of the rest."

"Your system?"

He jerked his head, indicating his whole body, metal arm and all. "System. Super-soldier, you know. Comes in handy sometimes."

"Like when you decide to take down Hydra bases without backup," Steve said. The words emerged a little sharper than he'd intended.

Bucky's jaw flexed. "I did say it might have been a mistake."

"Losing a week in a cabin a stone's throw from the enemy base you decimated? A base they knew you had a personal connection to? _Bucky. Y_ ou were unconscious, barefoot, _alone,_ in the middle of Austria. _Anyone_ could have walked in that door!"

"I'll take you with me next time."

Steve blew out a ragged breath and rubbed a hand across his jaw, grimacing at the feel of three days' worth of stubble. Steve Rogers didn't mind the bristle, but it wasn't a good look for Captain America. He hadn't had a chance to shave since the morning of Peggy's funeral. Hadn't gotten much sleep since then, either, if he was honest. He'd love Sam to turn up with the coffee right about now. He paced the width of the room, pivoted, paced back. "Next time?"

"They're still out there." Otherwise motionless, Bucky tracked Steve's movements with calm eyes. "Cut off one head, and all that. I'd rather find them before they find me."

"You do realise we're prisoners here? Both of us, all three of us?"

Bucky nodded. "I heard."

"We can't just _go._ "

"You could sign."

Steve stopped pacing to stare at him.

"Then we wouldn't be prisoners."

He gaped. "You — I — _what?_ "

"If you sign the Accords — " Bucky said.

"No."

"Then you'd be an Avenger again instead of an accused criminal — "

" _No._ "

"And we could go and hunt down Hydra to our hearts' content."

"Except they wouldn't let us," Steve said.

Bucky tipped his head, resigned. "There is that."

"And it's not just me who would have to sign, it's Sam as well."

"Wilson would follow your lead."

"I'm not so sure he would. On this. And you, you'd have to sign."

"I might surprise you," Bucky said, straight-faced.

"That wouldn't just surprise me, that would send me into cardiac arrest equivalent to Howard's vaunted… machine…. thing… that diverted half the power supply in Brooklyn." Steve sobered. "I can't, Buck. I can't sign that. I'm not gonna be a dancing monkey again. Not gonna be stuck doing propaganda films while good men rot in war camps."

Bucky eyed him. "Yeah, I… didn't really think you would. But it was worth a shot. I thought you might've outgrown the whole maverick thing."

"Maverick thing?"

"You went AWOL from the USO tour in Italy to go find me in Austria. I haven't forgotten _that._ The fact that you came home with four hundred POWs doesn't change the fact that the mission wasn't sanctioned." He grinned. "The maverick thing."

"Oh." Well. Steve supposed he had a point. " _That_ maverick thing. Y'know, I don't think that one made it into the history books."

"Their loss."

Steve straddled the chair again and pinned Bucky with a look. "Do you really want me to sign? Knowing what they are, what they mean for us?"

Bucky opened his mouth, eyes laughing, and then stopped. Swallowed. The laughter faded from his face. "I want you to be safe," he said, voice low. "But I know that you're not gonna sit around home while there's bullies to deal with. So when you're doing that… I want to be right there with you."

"Good."

"But if you want to sign…"

"I'm not inclined to shake hands with the guys who sat there and watched you being tortured," Steve said, dangerously casual.

"You always did take it hard."

"What?"

"Insults to your friends."

"That — ngyaah…" Steve's jaw dropped. "Insults."

"You know, like that time Micky O'Donnell was getting up in Becca's face — "

"Shut up." Steve dropped his head into his arms. Insults. Bucky thought that… The thought trailed off into a whimper. The confused tumble of emotions inside him stilled for a moment, and _oh yes_ he knew that one.

Rage.

"Steve?"

Steve stood. "I need a minute."

Bucky might have said something more; it fell beneath the buzzing in Steve's ears.

He turned his back and marched to the far wall, away from Bucky, away from another reminder of the hell Hydra had put him through. The blood pounded in his head. In his heart. His hands shook. Steve flattened his palms against the wall, fingers splayed, and dropped his head. _Breathe. In. And out. And In. That's it. Just breathe._

It wasn't Bucky's fault, he knew. It wasn't his best friend's fault that he plain _didn't recognise_ abuse when he saw it. Or felt it. Steve had seen the way he'd gone passively to the chair, muscles lax, no hint of anger or fear or _anything_ on his face. He'd shut down inside. It was something far beyond any soldier's _at ease._ Closer to a machine on standby.

There had been… something… when he caught Steve's eye, that moment they arrived at the JCTC building. A glint of very human emotion. And then Bucky had turned his head, looked away, shame and guilt smoothing into calm detachment.

The Winter Soldier hadn't been allowed to feel. Steve could guess that. And despite the progress Bucky had made in these last two years, that conditioning ran deep. Maybe deeper than they knew.

He nearly snorted out loud. Of course it ran deeper than they knew. Bucky's reaction to the notebook had been proof of that.

It hurt, the way he slipped so easily back into that headspace. He clearly expected to be treated more like a weapon than a breathing feeling human. It hurt that he rationalised cold-blooded torture as an insult, and not even an insult to himself, to _my name is Bucky,_ but an insult to _Steve's friend._

Despite the cold rage surging through him, despite the tremors shaking his body and the tears stinging his eyes, Steve couldn't deny the tiny glow of warmth inside him at that thought. Bucky thinking more of the connection to Steve than of his own identity was chilling, but perhaps not unexpected. Bucky remembering that connection and being able to name it for what it was — _he's my friend —_ yes, that was worth celebrating.

It was progress, however small.

"Uh. Cap?" Tony said through the earpiece. "You're making a bit of dent in the wall there."

 _Get a grip, Rogers._

Steve took a deliberate breath, gathered up the raging fury, and shoved it away into the back of his mind. The tremors stopped. He took his hands from the wall, grimacing at the finger-shaped indents in the metal panels, and wiped his face clean. "Sorry."

They had work to do.

He smoothed his expression and turned back to Bucky. He was unsurprised to find those stormy blue eyes fixed on him, unblinking.

"Don't bottle it up on my account," Bucky said, frowning even as his mouth quirked upward.

Steve stood front and centre before the cage, feet planted, back straight. "Did you live in that apartment the whole time you were in Bucharest?"

Bucky's expression dipped through patient acceptance before settling on a look of concentration Steve had seen hundreds of times before in briefings. He'd gotten the message: no breakdowns, no nostalgia, they were talking intel. "No. I lasted two weeks in my first place before I put a hole through the wall in my sleep. A month in the second. Four days in the third. Then the rest where you found me. I had the next apartment prepped, I was planning to move out on Monday."

"Any reason for moving out?"

"Needed a change of scenery."

Steve caught the faint edge of sarcasm and lifted an eyebrow.

"It's bad strategy to stay in one place for too long," Bucky said more seriously. "Routine, complacency… they're good ways to get killed. Better to keep moving."

He'd take that as an honest answer. "Any friends?"

"No."

"None?"

"I don't trust people. And the wrong word could have sent me into a panic attack or a flashback or worse. So. No."

He was painting a lonely picture of two years on the run, isolated, hurting, afraid… it would help the guys upstairs see him as human, but it didn't make Steve feel any better. "Regular human interaction? Shopkeepers, neighbours, anything like that?"

"A couple grocers, one butcher, the man at the cheapest fruit stall. Never the same day of the week, never the same time of day, but… enough that they knew me by sight after six months. With the neighbours, I kept my head down. Except with Mrs Cojocaru. But she deserved it."

Steve frowned. "What happened?"

"They lived on my floor at the second apartment." Bucky's mouth tightened. "She beat her husband. Nobody else seemed inclined to do anything about it, so I did."

"She alive?"

"What the hell, Steve? Of course she's still alive!"

Steve spread his hands. "Hey, I had to check."

"I talked to her, that's all. Made it clear the nice young man from next door knew what she was doing. Made it clear I disapproved. She moved out." He grimaced. "So did Mr Cojocaru, a couple of days later. I hoped he wouldn't go back to her, but people gotta make their own decisions, you know?"

"Yeah." Steve stared at his best friend, who he'd seen yesterday for the first time in more than two years. "I know. So no neighbours?"

"No neighbours. No friends. No routine. Routine's a good way to get killed. Any fool can headshot you if he knows you'll be walking down this street at this time on this day."

Bucky sounded as paranoid as Natasha. "Weren't you lonely?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." Bucky shrugged. "I felt safe, I know that much."

And then Steve arrived, and the JCTC arrived, and they'd cracked his safe space wide open. And Bucky had run, because what else could he do?

And now he was strapped to a torture chair inside a cage. "Safe. Okay." Steve nodded, heart aching. "What did you do for money?"

"Picked up work here and there. Used, um." Sweat gleamed on his temples. "Used stashes from Hydra safe houses otherwise." He swallowed.

"You okay?"

"Peachy. Just trying to pretend I'm not spilling vital intel. They'll use it against me, you know that, right?"

Steve did. "I'm sorry. They have to know if you're a threat."

Bucky's eyes narrowed. He flashed from resignation to rage quicker than blinking, surging forward against the restraints. "Of course I'm a threat! I could kill everyone here without blinking! If they had any sense, they'd take me out the back and shoot me like a dog!"

Steve stared, aghast.

Bucky's ragged breathing filled the silence. His hands clenched. The metal arm whined.

"Get out." Bucky dropped his head and groaned, mouth twisted in pain, spit dribbling from the corner.

"No."

"Out!"

"I'm not — "

"LEAVE!" Bucky lunged, teeth bared, eyes wild behind tangled hair. "GET OUT! GO!"

Steve fell back. Fumbled for the door. And as he stumbled out into the hall and Sam grabbed his arm, he heard Bucky start to scream.


	5. Chapter 5: Reprieve

**I don't own it.**

 **Chapter Five, here we go. Those of you've read _Hugs Are Not The Answer_ will recognise the coffee anecdote here, I'm sure. ;) **

**If you haven't read it, that's another Steve and Bucky platonic bromance story. You can find it on my profile.**

 **Enjoy!**

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5\. _Reprieve_

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It took Bucky twenty minutes to scream himself out.

Sam had drawn Steve into a rough embrace, then shoved him away up the hall toward the stairwell. "Go on," he said, taking up position outside the door again. "They want you upstairs. I'll be right here, don't worry about us."

Steve stared at him, off balance. The door closing had cut off any sound from the room, but Bucky's screams still echoed in his mind. His head was clouded with cotton wool. Even his feet felt unbearably sluggish. He didn't want to move. But he had to move. Didn't he?

"Go," Sam said again. "I'm on channel thirteen, same as you. I'll tell you the minute he's settled."

Steve went.

A couple of JCTC workers fell into step behind him as he started up the stairs. He tensed, body readying for a fight.

"It's alright, sir," said one of the women. "We're here to escort you up to Deputy Commander Ross."

"We're not here to hurt you," the other one said.

Steve snorted and then caught himself as a thought pushed itself forward above the haze of mental static. Damn. He wasn't Steve Rogers out here. He was Captain America.

Captain America did not snort at anonymous JCTC workers.

He should say something. Acknowledge their words.

"Right," Steve said tersely. Another landing. He started up the next flight. How many flights had it been? He'd lost count. His legs didn't hurt. He was too tired to hurt.

"Sir? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He forced a smile. "Just need some coffee and I'll be good as new."

The two workers glanced at each other. They arrived at the next landing. The first woman put a hand on Steve's shoulder and quickly pulled it back as Steve twitched away.

"Left here," she said, leading the way through the door.

Steve trudged with them along endless identical corridors. They stopped outside a door, and the workers waved him forward. "The Deputy Commander is waiting for you, sir."

Steve tried to blink the grittiness from his eyes without much success, and stepped inside.

It wasn't just Everett Ross waiting for him in the conference room. Tony and Natasha were there too. And Sharon. And His Royal Highness Prince — King? — T'Challa of Wakanda. And a handful of nameless white-collar aides and deputies.

On the huge screen at the far end of the room, Bucky was soundlessly screaming.

"Captain Rogers," Ross said. "Have a seat."

Steve unclenched his hand from its reflexive fist, smoothed his palm down his jeans, and dropped into the chair between Nat and Sharon. "Turn the sound on."

Ross smiled humourlessly. "I don't think so. We're here to talk business, not get distracted by a mass murderer having a mental breakdown."

Natasha grabbed Steve's arm, stopping his lunge across the table.

"He's not — " Steve broke off. But Bucky was, wasn't he? He might be innocent of the Vienna bombing, but he'd still killed dozens of people under Hydra's control. "I need to hear him," he said instead. "If he's hurting, I need to be able to hear it."

"He's screaming," Natasha said, not unkindly. "I think he's hurting."

"He has levels of screaming. That's not…" Steve clenched his jaw, eyes flickering between Ross and the screen. "That wasn't a danger scream. Not yet. But if it turns into one, I need to be there. Turn the sound on."

Ross eyed him for a long moment, looking displeased, then reached for a remote and hit a button. Bucky's screams filled the room. Ross tapped the remote again, and the volume faded into the background.

"There," he said, setting the remote back into its slot. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic." Steve could see Bucky, he could hear him… the itching at the back of his mind eased.

"Perhaps we can get down to business now."

Tony hummed a few bars of jaunty music.

Ross glared at him.

Tony lifted an eyebrow. The humming stopped.

"Now. We've got Broussard locked up downstairs in a cell. I've sent a couple of guys in there to question him, we'll see what he has to say for himself when those reports come through. They shouldn't be too long."

"Are you torturing him, too?" Steve asked, mockingly cheerful. Sleep deprivation was a wonderful thing when you needed to push your own boundaries. This was no place for a reserved Captain America. Bucky needed Steve, the punk from Brooklyn who didn't know when to stay down.

"Steve." Sharon winced. "Come on. I told you, it was a safety precaution — "

"And I told you," he said, smile fading, "that I'm not inclined to shake hands with the people who've been torturing my best friend. Does that include you?" It would hurt, he had to admit. This fledgeling thing with Sharon… it would hurt to give it up. But he'd give up a hundred Sharon Carters for one Bucky Barnes. "I know you heard that. You heard everything."

"I'm sorry. I didn't…"

"No. You didn't." He turned back to Ross. "How did he get through security?"

"He had the credentials."

"The question is," said Tony, "how did the _book_ get through security? You got a mole in here? Or are your people — are they _our_ people now? — are they just incompetent?"

"We're working on it," Ross snapped. "It's only been an hour since Rogers broke custody and knocked the guy out. I thought we — yeah, what?"

An aide brandishing a tablet whispered in Ross' ear.

"Right, tell them I'm on my way. Sorry, gentlemen — and ladies — "

Nat rolled her eyes.

"I'm needed elsewhere. Won't be long."

Everett Ross vanished out the door, sweeping his aides and deputies along in his wake. Sharon shot Steve a sympathetic look before following them out.

Steve slumped back in his chair, eyes swinging to the screen. Bucky was _still_ screaming. He'd kept an ear trained on the noise; it was noticeably hoarse, now. "You've sure got a way of picking friends, Tony."

"Give me a break." Tony looked almost as tired as Steve felt. "I'm trying to help us, here."

"Good job."

"They could have pulled you out of that room two seconds after you walked in. Want to know why they didn't? _Me._ I'm why they didn't."

"He vouched for you," Natasha said drily. "Got quite impassioned about it. Said you were the best man for the job, blah blah blah."

"I wouldn't have let them pull me out," Steve said.

 _Just go, get out of here!_

 _No! Not without you!_

"Oh, you would have." Tony's eyes darkened. "They've got more tricks up their cheap polyester sleeves than that remote you destroyed. How long could you have held out if they shocked him until you gave in?"

Steve's mouth was abruptly dry. He worked up saliva and swallowed. "And these are the people you've signed on to work with." He shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"A thank you would suffice."

"Thank you, of course. But still. Unbelievable."

"Yeah, well." Tony grimaced. "Got to be cruel to be kind. Or something."

"Definitely something," Nat said. Under the table, her fingers brushed Steve's knee. She flicked a glance at the ceiling.

He got the message. Cameras everywhere. Microphones everywhere. It was no less than he'd expected. These guys were paranoid on an almost obscene level.

Tony stood and stretched, grunting. "No telling how long he'll be. I'll go for a coffee run. Anyone?"

"Yep," said Nat.

"Please," said Steve.

"I would appreciate it," said T'challa, speaking for the first time since Steve had entered the room.

"You got it." Tony turned for the door. "Coming right up."

Bucky was hunched over as far as the restraints would let him, head hanging, still screaming. His hands were clenched white-knuckled on the arms of the chair. Steve couldn't see his eyes past the tangled screen of hair. How long had been since he'd started? Ten minutes? Fifteen? He couldn't keep it up for much longer, surely. His voice would give out if nothing else.

"Hey," Nat said gently. "He'll be alright."

Steve took a deep breath. "Will he?"

"Of course he will. He's come back from far worse."

He shivered. Felt her hand close on his shoulder in silent reassurance. "Yeah. I just wish I knew what was wrong. Wish I could help."

She pushed her chair back and walked to the other side of the table. Rummaged in a drawer. "Here." She slid a book of blank paper and a pencil across the table.

"Why?"

"You've got that look. Like you're itching to sketch."

He mustered a tired smile. "Thank you." He _was_ itching to sketch. He hadn't expected to have a pencil in his hand this soon. T'challa was silent in the corner, looking deep in thought. Nat sank back into her chair beside him. Steve shot one last glance at Bucky — no change — and bent to the blank pad.

Seven minutes later, the screaming stopped.

Steve jerked his head up. On the screen, Bucky was slumped in the chair, shaking, his chest heaving. Why had he stopped screaming? Had Ross and his goons shocked him again to _make_ him stop? They'd better not have.

The pencil groaned in his hand. He loosened his grip.

He almost expected the screaming to start again. But Bucky stayed silent. Steve watched as his breathing settled, hands easing their frantic grasp on the chair. The rise and fall of his chest slowed, and in another minute his chin drooped to his chest.

Steve let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Sleeping. Or unconscious. Both of which were better than Bucky screaming himself hoarse. He watched the screen for another full minute, absorbing the blessed silence, the stillness. Bucky was okay. He was okay.

He would be okay.

Steve acknowledged Sam's update and went back to his sketching.

"Coffee," Tony announced some time later, barging through the door.

Natasha jumped.

Steve didn't look up as a takeaway cup appeared on the table in front of him. "Thanks."

"Black with a ridiculous amount for sugar for Cap, black no sugar for Natasha, and I wasn't sure what you wanted, your highness, so that's a large cappuccino. And a sugar packet in case it's not sweet enough."

"And you?" Nat asked.

"Extra large, extra hot triple-shot mocha with whipped cream and chocolate sauce."

Steve pretended to gag.

"Laugh it up, Popsicle. You're the guy with _four_ sugars in your small cup."

"Metabolism," Steve said. The yawn caught him off guard: it emerged as _meta-a-a-a-bolism._

"We know," said Nat, taking a long, slow sip from her cup.

"And it's his fault." He nodded to the screen.

Tony propped his feet on the table and lifted a sceptical eyebrow. "Your metabolism is Barnes' fault?"

"No, the sugar is. I needed all the calories I could get my hands on during the war, but rationing was tight, even for the Howling Commandos. He started going without. Never told me, but he snuck his sugar ration into my coffee. Got me hooked on it."

Natasha grinned. "Well, now we know who to blame if we end up with a caffeinated, sugar-overdosed fossil on our hands."

"Oh my gosh," said Steve, feigning innocence. "That's so funny. I've never heard it before. Ever."

Nat flipped him off and laughed.

"What are you…?" Tony leaned across the table and flipped the sketchpad around. "Oh."

It was Bucky. Bucky with his head tipped back, eyes alight, roaring with laughter. He looked ten years younger; younger not from nostalgia on the artist's side, but from the absence of pain and fear. The chair was there, but it was only a chair. Faint lines ghosted over the curve of Bucky's shoulders. Steve had shaded them carefully. The restraints were no more a suggestion; depending on interpretation, the sheen could be light reflecting off metal or Bucky's form showing through the half-translucent straps. The ends faded into oblivion, leaving them loose, something to be thrown off at will, which — Steve had to admit — was wishful thinking on his part.

"You've got skill, Cap," Tony murmured.

"It's a reminder." Steve glanced up at the screen, where Bucky was sleeping. "He's not… whatever they think he is, a mindless killer, I don't know. He's my best friend, he's a human with human feelings. And he's been through so much." He gulped air. "I just want them to see that. To remind them."

"Remind us of what?"

Oh. Great. Everett Ross was back.

"That you're holding a former Prisoner Of War captive," Steve snapped, hackles rising. "A man who served in some of the most dangerous missions of World War Two. And a man who happens to be my best friend, if that makes any difference to you."

"It doesn't," Ross said bluntly. "Oh, he's stopped screaming. Good. Some peace and quiet at last."

"Commander," said Tony, at his most pseudo-obsequious. "May I remind you that we do, in fact, _need_ Captain Rogers? Alienating him by insulting Barnes serves no purpose."

Ross ignored the interruption. "Right. Rogers."

"Yes?" Steve refused to call him _sir._

"Good job on the questioning so far. We'd like you to keep it more relevant if you can; that means no jaunts down memory lane, no nostalgic misty-eyed reminiscing, no more of your little tantrums, understood? Just get the intel and get out."

Wow. This guy had no idea, did he? Steve looked incredulously at Tony, who shrugged and grimaced.

"Is that understood?" Ross repeated.

"No," said Steve, and ruined the effect by yawning again. "I'm not going to interrogate him like he's some criminal."

"He _is_ a criminal. You're both criminals, actually. How many options do you think you have here?"

"More than the two you're offering me."

 _And these are your only two options? A lab rat or a dancing monkey?_

"I'm offering you the chance to talk to your friend. The fact that you're helping us get valuable information is, shall we say, a bonus."

"It's not a bonus for me."

"Yes, it is," said Ross. "It's keeping you out of prison. I'm sorry, am I boring you?"

Steve blinked and forced his eyes open again. "Sorry. No, I'm — uh. You're not. I'm fine. I have coffee. Just waiting for it to kick in. Tony, you didn't sneak me decaf, did you?"

Tony grinned shamelessly.

"Wait, you _did?_ You son of a — "

"How long's it been since you slept, Cap?"

Steve waved a hand and hissed as his coffee splashed. Wrong hand. He shoved the sketch pad away from the puddle. "Doesn't matter. I have coffee."

"Uh huh. Answer the question."

"I slept last night."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "Let me rephrase that. When was the last time you slept for more than two consecutive hours? Or _one_ hour, even?"

Damn. Steve rubbed a hand over his face and admitted, "London."

"The funeral?" Natasha asked in disbelief.

"Uh. Yeah."

"That was three days ago!"

He scratched at his stubble. "I know. I had things to do."

"And you have things to do now," Tony said. "Like _sleep,_ Steve. There's a cot in the room just down the hall. Use it."

"I can't — "

"You can," Natasha said firmly. She lifted his coffee away, ignoring his whimper of protest. "You're no use to Barnes if you're half-dead from exhaustion. Go have a nap. _He_ is."

"But — "

"We'll come get you as soon as he wakes up. Promise."

"Cross my heart," Tony said brightly. "And hope to, er, not die."

Steve glanced between them. Thought about cudgelling up some sort of argument. Two steely gazes met him stare-for-stare. Ugh. He sighed and gave in. "Fine. But I want to know the second he wakes up."

"You will," said Natasha.

"The _second._ I mean it."

"Stop fussing," said Tony.

"We'll have a list for you," Ross said, folding his arms. "Questions. Topics for you to talk about with him."

Steve didn't give him the dignity of an answer. He turned and walked out. The room with the cot was down the hall, right where Tony had said.

He shucked his boots, lay down, and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.


	6. Chapter 6: Peggy

**I don't own it.**

 **Once again, thank you for the reviews, and I hope you enjoy reading!**

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 _6\. Peggy_

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"Steve," said Sam's voice in his voice.

Steve came awake immediately. "I'm here."

"Barnes is asking for you."

He rolled off the cot, pulled on his boots, and was out the door inside five seconds. "On my way."

Once he hit the stairs, he started running, and made it to sub-level five in three minutes. Sam stood outside the door, right where Steve had last seen him, feet planted, arms loose at his sides, immovable as stone.

"How is he?"

"No change," Sam said. "He's calm. Lucid. Asking for you."

"How long — ?"

"You've been out three hours. He's had food and water. Here." He produced a folded piece of paper and passed it over with a grimace. "Ross said to give this to you. Questions or something."

Ugh. "Right." Steve pushed the door open and stepped in, already talking. "Bucky, hey, I'm here. I'm here."

Bucky sat motionless, as still as Steve as had ever seen him. His gaze moved slowly around the room, sliding from corner to desk to door without seeming to take anything in. He looked lost.

"Buck?" Steve padded forward, stomach sinking. _Please, no._ If Bucky had reverted, if he'd forgotten Steve, forgotten _himself…_ Steve didn't think he could bear it.

No response.

"Bucky!"

Stormy blue eyes locked onto Steve's gaze. No other indication that he'd heard Steve. He looked more like a confused puppy than a ruthless assassin.

But he knew his name. He knew Steve's voice. That was something.

Steve kept his voice soft. "Do you know who I am?"

Bucky's mouth worked for a moment, as if he was wetting it. "Steve." Quiet, unsure. Less a statement of fact than a tentative hypothesis.

"Yeah, pal. It's Steve." He squatted down, putting himself at Bucky's eye level. "Do you know who _you_ are?"

" _Soldat._ " The voice was gravelly that time, hoarse and deep. Bucky's forehead creased. He blinked, long and slow, the lost look morphing into uncertainty. " _Nyet. Ne soldat._ Not — not the soldier?"

Steve didn't let his concern show. He kept his voice calm, level, a tone he'd used in the war to talk Bucky down from near panic after his nightmares. "You're not the soldier, that's right. Do you know your name?"

"I — " Bucky drew a sharp breath. His jaw slammed shut. " _Nyet._ "

"It's okay. You can tell me. I won't hurt you."

Bucky's eyes glinted. "They always hurt me," he whispered. The tone was pure Bucky Barnes; Bucky after Kreischberg, hurting and panicking and trembling with the effort of not lashing out.

Steve's arms ached. In the war he'd drawn Bucky back to safety with quiet words and warm touches: sometimes a pat on the shoulder would do it, a solid hug; other times they'd sleep back to back for the rest of the night.

And now? Now Steve couldn't so much as lift a finger to him. Which meant he needed to use words.

"I'm not them," Steve said. He dropped to sit crossed-legged on the floor. "I'm Steve, remember? I won't hurt you. I'll never hurt you."

They sat in silence for the space of a dozen slow breaths.

"Prove it," Bucky said finally.

"Prove that I won't hurt you?"

"If you're Steve — " a spasm crossed his face, sick and fearful and horrified — "I need you to prove it. Please."

Steve nodded. Tried not to think about the implications of the request. Failed. Of course Hydra had used him against Bucky, against the Winter Soldier. Everyone knew about Steve-and-Bucky, best friends and battle brothers. "Okay. Uh. Our last conversation went something like this." He summoned the memory of Bucharest. " _I wasn't in Vienna. I don't do that anymore._ The people who think you did are coming here now. And they're not planning on taking you alive. _That's smart. Good strategy._ This doesn't have to end in a fight. _It always ends in a fight._ "

Bucky looked blank.

"Nothing?" Steve asked.

Bucky shook his head.

Blast. There was no telling what Bucky remembered and what he didn't. He could pick out a dozen moments from their history with no guarantee that Bucky would recognise any of them.

Something from further back, maybe. Much further back.

"You still owe me 87 cents for that train ride at Easter."

Miraculously, Bucky's face lightened.

"You remember that?"

"Yeah. I remember. Jerk." Bucky grinned. "I've saved your life half a dozen times, I think we're even."

"I've saved _your_ life half a dozen times. You still owe me 87 cents." Steve sobered. "Do you know your name?"

"Barnes. Sergeant." Bucky frowned, eyes darting down and to the right, and then the frown cleared. "Bucky. My name is Bucky."

The knot of tension inside him eased. "Good. That's great. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry. About before. Didn't want you to have to see that."

"What was it?"

"I have trouble, sometimes. Knowing the difference between my thoughts and things they conditioned me to think." His eyes dropped to the floor. "So I have to, uh, delineate that boundary. Make sure my mind knows it's not _me_ thinking that. It's not usually that loud. Sorry. I try to have soundproofing in place. Or at least an arm free."

Steve's gut clenched. His mind threw up an image of Bucky alone in his dingy apartment, huddled on the thin mattress, biting his arm to keep the neighbours from hearing —

He shuddered.

"I — " Bucky's eyes closed again, brow creasing in frustration. " _Kak soldat dolzhen govorit', yesli on ne mozhet_ — No. English. Damn. Pronouns. Captain?"

"Bucky."

Bucky's chest rose and fell in a heaving breath. He didn't open his eyes. His voice, when it came, was clipped and tense. " _Captain?_ "

Oh. Military ranks it was. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Requesting permission to speak, sir."

Steve's gut knotted again. Permission. Of course. "Granted in perpetuity, Sergeant."

The air left Bucky's lungs in a whoosh. He slumped boneless. His eyes were tired but alert when he opened them. "About damn time."

"Sorry." Steve spread his hands. "Didn't know what you wanted. Or how much of you was in there. _Which_ you."

"Can't pull rank on myself. And I'm always in there. Just a bit tied up sometimes, that's all."

"You — " Steve gaped. "James Buchanan Barnes. _Tied up,_ really?"

Bucky tipped his head and grinned, that familiar roguish gleam in his eye. He shrugged against the restraints clamped around his shoulders. "I saw an opportunity and I took it. Yeah, Steve. Tied up."

"If you weren't in a cage, I'd come over there and make you regret that."

"You can't do that."

"Can't I?"

"I'm unarmed." Bucky held Steve's gaze, lips pressed tight. His left hand flexed, metal fingers uncurling to drive the joke home. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Sometimes I think you're just asking for a beating," Steve said.

"In my defence, I learned from the best. By which I mean you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, pal. You just can't help yourself, can you? You gotta be in the thick of the fight, even if it'll get you killed. You're an idiot."

Steve snorted and settled himself more comfortably on the cold floor. "Enlighten me. What've I done this time?"

"You dropped your shield."

"That was two years ago."

"You provoked an amnesiac assassin into attacking you by way of telling him things he couldn't quite remember — do you have any idea how dangerous that is? — and then you deliberately _dropped your shield_ and let him pound your face into pulp _._ "

Steve grimaced. Bucky sure did have a way with words. "I couldn't kill you."

"So you were just gonna let _me_ kill _you_ instead?" Bucky shook his head, exasperation tempered with very old affection. "Tsk. What would Carter have said to that?"

 _Allow your friend the dignity of his choice._

"She would have understood," Steve said.

"No, she would have agreed with me. She'd say you were an idiot. Because you are." His eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

Grief rose, soft and strangling. "Buck… She's dead."

Levity fled. Bucky stared at him for a long second, mouth gaping, disbelieving. And then tears welled. "Mags is dead?"

"Yeah." She'd hated the nickname. Which, of course, was why Bucky had used it.

"When? How?" Bucky caught his breath, looking horrified. His mouth trembled. His fingers curled, clinging to the chair, white-knuckled and shaking. "Don't —" It was almost a whisper. A plea. "Don't tell me I killed her, too."

"No." Steve surged forward, came to his knees, plastered a hand against the glass. "No, Buck. _Hell. No._ Old age. It was old age, I swear." He blinked back tears. "She went in her sleep. Last Thursday."

"Old age," Bucky said, voice heavy. His face crumpled as the tears overflowed; he hung his head, sucking air through his nostrils. " _Old age._ " He was crying properly, now. Tears splashed to the ground between his feet. His voice rose hysterically. "Damn it! Damn — she can't — damn it, damn her, damn _them_ — !"

"Bucky. Breathe."

Bucky's head came up, face red with anger, lined with grief, eyes stunned. His mouth worked, spitting curses even as he panted for breath. His chest heaved, labouring under the strain.

"Bucky," Steve said again. " _Breathe._ That's an order."

Bucky gritted his teeth. Clenched his eyes shut. Tears leaked from under his eyelids. He pressed his lips tight, tendons standing out in his neck. Slowly, so slowly, his breathing settled. "Talk about ironic."

"What?"

"You. Telling me to breathe."

"Jerk." Steve couldn't quite manage a smile. "They have inhalers these days. For asthma. Makes breathing a lot easier, or so I hear."

"She's really dead." The words were achingly soft; Steve had to lean forward to hear them.

"Yeah." Steve wiped away his own tears. "I'm sorry."

"Funeral?"

"It was in London. Two days ago — or three, maybe, with the time zones. On Saturday."

"Damn." It was hardly more than a sigh. "I would've been there, Steve. _Should have_ been there."

"You didn't know."

His jaw flexed. "We're the last ones left. I should have been there."

"You loved her." The words spilled from Steve without conscious thought.

Bucky sniffed. Gave a barely-there nod. His eyes opened and he smiled the saddest smile Steve had ever seen. "Like a sister." The smile deepened. "Or sister-in-law, maybe."

"She got married, you know. To someone else." Steve had long since made his peace with it. He'd been dead. He was happy for Peggy, that she'd found someone after losing him. That she'd been able to live her life.

"Hope he deserved her."

"Apparently we rescued him during the war."

"Oh?"

"And a few hundred other guys. Broke a Hydra blockade during the winter of '44. Don't know which one."

"There were a few," Bucky agreed. He took a slow breath. "I saw her cry once. Think that was when I realised… I mean, it had always been us two. Looking out for you. But it was different, after."

Steve leaned forward, unwilling to admit the fierce pang of longing that shot through him. "When was that?"

"We were back at base. After… I don't know. A mission." Bucky's eyes flicked to the cameras, and Steve nodded. One of _those_ missions. "You were in a debriefing with, uh, classified."

"It's been seventy-odd years, Buck. You can probably say the name."

"No, I can't."

If it was the mission Steve was thinking of, _classified_ was probably Eisenhower. Or maybe Churchill. "Go on."

"I bumped into Carter outside the mess hall." Bucky's eyes softened, Brooklyn accent growing stronger as he slipped into the memory. "She walked me back. We talked. Nothing in particular, just… conversation. You know."

Conversation to distract from the fact that they were at war, that they were exhausted and hungry and frustrated at the lack of action, that they'd all seen more death than they knew how to handle. "I know."

"A runner caught her in the lane outside our tent. Gave her a telegram and went off. She opened it then and there." Bucky blew out a breath. "It was her cousin. Ted. Killed in action at Noemfoor."

Steve bowed his head. "I see."

"She took it hard." Bucky's mouth moved soundlessly for a moment, a crease between his brows. "They'd been close. I think Ted sort of… took over… from her brother, after Michael died. I've never seen her like that. Never wanted to see her like that again." He blinked, lashes wet. "I got her into our tent, got her some privacy. Wrapped her in a blanket. Scraped up some tea from the last of our field supplies. She cried herself out on my shoulder."

And Steve had been in a meeting. Talking troop numbers and strategies while his best girl wept herself dry on his best friend's shoulder. "Thank you. For being there."

Bucky flicked his head, shrugging off the thanks. "Didn't do it for you."

"I know. But still."

"She fell asleep pretty quick. I don't think she'd been sleeping well for a while. Settled her in my bunk. She looked cold, so I stole the blankets off yours as well." He caught Steve's look. "I wasn't going to put her in _your_ bunk, was I? The rumours were bad enough as it was."

"Always defending my honour," Steve murmured.

"Defending your everything, punk. Me and the boys, we knew it wasn't like that. A quick roll in the hay ain't your style. Or hers. What you two had… it was damn special." Bucky's teeth flashed, sharp and grim. "We straightened out anyone who said any different."

Steve groaned. "Thanks, Buck."

"You're welcome. I crashed on the floor next door in the boys' tent. Kept an ear out for you getting back, but it must've been a long meeting."

"Yeah, it was."

"Don't remember what happened after that. Guess you were at the debrief all night."

"No, if it — " Steve stopped, but not fast enough.

Bucky looked at him, eyes alight, ravenously curious. "What?"

"If it's the night I'm thinking of, Dum-Dum ran across and pulled me out of the meeting at 0300. Said you needed me."

Bucky frowned. "I don't remember that."

"You didn't even remember it the next morning, don't worry. You were seizing in your sleep. It wasn't from nightmares, or not directly. Latent effects from Z… from Kreischberg."

"Why'd they need you?"

"I was the only one who could calm you down. Or hold you down, if need be."

"Figures." Bucky exhaled a quick breath through his nose. "You were the one who got me off that table, after all."

"Yeah."

The shadows rose in his eyes again. "I just wish I could have see her. Before she died." His voice cracked. "I don't… it's been a long time and no time at all, how does that —?"

"I know, pal. Five minutes ago we were 26 and Peggy was, what, 23? And then I wake up and… I'm still 26. But she's 90." Steve shook his head. "Honestly, it's probably better that you didn't see her. After. She had Alzheimer's. She'd get confused, lose track of the conversation… forget I was there. And then she'd look across and see me again, and it was like I was back for the first time." He'd seen her cry more times in the last two years than he cared to think about. "It… it wasn't fair. To her."

"Or to you," Bucky said. The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes were sober. "Must be hard. Having someone look at you who's known you all those years, and them not recognising you."

Steve ducked his head. "Yeah. Well. A bit. I don't know how she would've reacted to you coming back from the dead."

"Might not've recognised me. My hair's longer now." Bucky rolled his eyes to squint at his overgrown locks.

"Is it? I hadn't noticed."

The fingers on Bucky's flesh hand flexed in a familiar movement. With his arms clamped under the restraints he couldn't get the rotation to flick his wrist up, but he managed to flip Steve off upside down.

"Vain as a peacock," Steve said, grinning. "You and Howard made a right pair, with his three-piece suits and your eternal fussing over your hair…"

"Women appreciate a well-presented man, I'll have you know."

"You might need another decade in a bathtub, then." In truth, Bucky wasn't half as vain as they'd all made out. Nobody could be after a year on the front lines. They'd teased him about it, of course, like they'd teased Falsworth about his atrocious French. But it was yet another thing the propaganda films and the history books had latched onto and refused to let go.

Bucky sighed and cast an assessing look around the room, lingering on the cameras. "Think they'll let me out of this chair anytime soon?"

"I'm sure we can work out some sort of deal."

"Oh?"

Steve stood, strode back to the desk, and grabbed the piece of paper. "Ross has a list of questions he wants me to ask you. Some of them are…" Steve raised his eyebrows and snorted. "Not that one… or that one. Or… ugh… do _not_ need to know _that —_ "

"What?"

"Nothing. Give me a sec, I'm sure there'll be somethi — "

He snapped his jaw shut. Damn.

"Steve? What is it?"

"December 16, 1991. That was the date the shrink wanted to know about, right?"

Bucky's expression wiped smooth. "Yes."

"So does Ross."

He cursed under his breath. "Why?"

"You tell me."

"Damn it," Bucky hissed. "I _can't_ , Steve. Not here, not with — " His eyes went to the cameras and flicked away, jaw clenching. "Not with them watching. There's got to be something else, _anything_ else on that list."

"That's the only one underlined in red pen," Steve said quietly. "And I'm betting they'll find out eventually. Might be better to let them hear it from you. Whatever it is." From Tony's reaction earlier, he could make a good guess. But the show of cooperation wouldn't hurt their chances.

Bucky stared into the middle distance and took a couple of slow breaths. After a minute he let out a defeated sigh. "Yeah. That makes sense." He didn't look happy about it. But he met Steve's eyes and mustered a sickly smile. "Okay. Deal. You get me out of this chair and I'll answer the question."


	7. Chapter 7: Lull

**I don't own it.**

 **Sorry, this one's a little late. Thanks for reading and reviewing :)**

* * *

 _7\. Lull_

* * *

"Do you trust me?" Steve asked. He wouldn't have blamed Bucky for hesitating.

But the answer came immediately. "Yes."

Good.

There was a pause, and then Bucky added, "I'd say I trust you more than I trust myself, but under the circumstances that wouldn't be saying much."

Steve acknowledged that with a nod and a ghosting grin, and turned to the nearest camera. "Tony."

"I'm here." Tony didn't sound pleased.

"We're not talking until those restraints come off. Tell Ross if he wants answers, Bucky has to be out of the chair."

"He's not going to — "

"Starting now," Steve said, overly pleasant, and muted the earpiece.

Bucky smirked at him, the old familiar smirk that was part devil-may-care and part steely resolve and 100% pure Bucky Barnes. His eyebrow twitched in silent question. _I'm guessing they weren't too happy?_

Steve lifted the corner of his mouth. _That's one way of putting it._

A flicker of the eyes toward the camera, and another to the door. _They gonna pull you out?_

He squared his shoulders. _I'd like to see them try._

Bucky's eyes softened. _You're a punk. Thanks._

Steve tipped his head. _Takes one to know one. You're welcome._

Broussard's things were still on the desk. They'd obviously been looked through while Steve had been gone. The angles were off by just enough, a book lying landscape instead of portrait, pens pressed too close together. Alarm bells rang in his head, and then died away as he remembered Sam. Sam wouldn't have let anyone be in the room alone with Bucky. It might even have been Sam who'd looked over the stuff. That would explain the less-than-expert replacements.

He grabbed the blank notebook, tested the pencils until he found the sharpest one — not as close to sharp as he would have liked, but not terrible — and strolled back to the cage, where he settled himself on the floor with his back against the glass, notebook propped on his bent knees so Bucky could watch over his shoulder.

An hour and a half later, he was shading in the light reflecting off a mountain lake when Bucky cleared his throat. He twisted to glance over his shoulder. _What is it?_

Bucky didn't do anything as obvious as flush, but there was a nervous movement to his lip, like he was worrying at it a little. _I. Uh._

Steve set down the notebook and pencil and stood, sliding into the space between Bucky and the front camera. He couldn't block the view from _every_ camera — there were too many of them — but he could at least prevent Everett Ross and Company from getting a good look at Bucky's face. He blinked once, slowly, communicating a silent _Go ahead_.

Bucky's hips wriggled on the chair, just enough that Steve noticed. _I need to pee, pal._

 _Now?_ Raised eyebrows.

Double blink. _No._ There was no sign of embarrassment. They'd grown up together and served in the army, both of which had left them with little concern for modesty. Steve would bet The Winter Soldier hadn't been shy about it, either. Bucky gave another tiny hip shuffle. _But sooner rather than later would be appreciated._

He nodded and flashed a too-bright grin. _Well then. Let's see if we can rile them up, shall we?_

 _Challenge accepted._ Bucky returned the grin.

Steve flicked his earpiece on in time to hear Tony mutter, "Cap, what are you up to? Don't blow this thing up in our faces, please. These guys aren't bad people. They're a bit overzealous, sure, but we need to work with them."

Tuning out Tony's whining, he turned to the camera, rolled his eyes as loudly as he could, and turned back to Bucky.

He straddled the straight-backed wooden chair. Flexed his fingers. Tapped a series of longs and shorts on the wooden frame.

 _Do you remember Morse?_

Bucky stared at him, blank-faced.

The moment stretched.

Steve didn't hold his breath. There was no point. If Bucky didn't know, they'd just try another nonverbal method, and another, until they hit on one that worked. Between Steve's twenty-five years of partial deafness and their sixteen months of active ops during the war, they had more than a few established.

Finally Bucky tapped his metal forefinger in staccato reply. _Yes._

 _They'll know it, too,_ Steve tapped.

 _Yes._

 _Might annoy them enough to let you out of the chair._

Bucky's expression didn't change. _Yes._

He was becoming positively predictable.

But then Bucky dipped his chin and narrowed his eyes at Steve in what was unmistakably a glare. Not a Hydra-glare, though, cold as ice and hard as rock. This was a Bucky-glare, currently holding seven parts irritation and three parts long-suffering.

Steve frowned. _Are you okay?_

Bucky closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Steve braced himself.

 _No, Steve, I am not okay. What the hell made you choose Morse, of all the methods of nonverbal communication at our disposal? You know I hate it. It's slow and clunky and basically obsolete at this point, because there's no code to it, which means anyone can read it if they've got half a brain cell. Or, hell, if they've got a computer. Or even a phone. They're called smart phones for a reason, you know. All those guys gotta do is press a button and they'll have a sound-to-text program converting what we're saying in no time. Cheaters._

That last was no doubt for the suits upstairs. But Bucky wasn't done yet.

 _I mean, I guess it's better than semaphore, but that ain't saying much, and it's better than miming or mouthing, because literally anything would be better than that —_ he was tapping so fast by that point Steve nearly asked him to slow down — _but damn it, Stevie, are you or are you not the guy who taught me ASL when we were twelve?_

Steve ducked his head, grinning. _You were twelve. I was eleven._

Bucky opened his eyes and snarled soundlessly. _You know what I mean._

 _Yeah._ Steve made a show of wiping his smile away. One benefit of Morse was that it didn't need line-of-sight to work. But watching Bucky react was priceless. _I do, pal._

 _You know I hate Morse,_ Bucky said again.

Steve didn't have to try too hard to read the plaintive edge to the words. Yeah, he'd known Bucky had hated Morse. But that was Bucky _then,_ not Bucky _now._ He hadn't been sure if it would still hold true.

Looked like it had. _Sorry. You want to try something else?_

Bucky looked like he was about to explode; whether from exasperation or laughter, Steve wasn't sure. His tapping was loud and slow, clearly as near to shouting as he could get without opening his mouth. _Y.E.S._

 _Okay_. _Your turn to pick._

ASL, Steve privately predicted, and then second-guessed himself. No, they'd just been talking about that. Bucky wouldn't be so obvious. He'd want to keep Ross on his toes.

Keeping them on their toes was exactly what Bucky did. Or rather, keeping himself on his toes.

He stared at the ceiling for a minute, head tilted, and then shuffled his feet in a movement that probably would have worked a hundred times better if his shins hadn't been clamped to the chair.

But as it was, Steve had no problem recognising the pattern. Rock-back-forward, side-together-side, side-together-side. Jive. He'd seen the footwork a million times, in dance halls and on the hardwood floor of their apartment in Brooklyn.

The pattern repeated, then slid into a single Charleston and stilled. Bucky raised an eyebrow. _Well?_

Steve nearly smiled. Jive, Jive, Charleston. It wasn't so much a code as a declaration of intent, Bucky laying claim to some very old territory.

But if Ross happened to think it was a code of some sort… well. Steve didn't really care. Let him think that. Let him panic, trying to work out the non-existent message beneath the moves.

Steve's escape had always been through his art: sketching mostly, with the odd bit of painting mixed in. He'd never been a dancer. Bucky had tried to teach him more than once, but before the serum, he just hadn't had the coordination for it. After the serum, there had been far more important things to think about.

Bucky had been the opposite. He couldn't draw for anything, no matter how many times Steve gave him pointers, but he could waltz — and Jitterbug, and Lindy Hop, and Foxtrot — circles around anyone else on the dance floor. It had been his escape. He lost himself in the motion like Steve lost himself in a blank page.

One of the first things Steve had done when he woke up in 2012 was enrol in swing dancing classes. And for the last two years, he'd been making notes about how to teach someone to sketch.

Bucky clicked his tongue. _Alright?_

Steve did grin then. Shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. And mirrored Bucky's moves, Charleston, Jive, Jive, with the pardonable exception of having a whole extra range of motion, courtesy of _not_ having his calves strapped down.

Bucky's face lit up. _You can dance now?_

Steve kicked back into the shuffling zig-zag of the Cha Cha. _Yep._

 _Wait._ The smile faded into a light frown, Bucky analysing Steve's footwork as closely as he'd analyse any sniper shot. He jerked his head. _Do that again._

Steve did.

Those penetrating eyes followed his feet, and Bucky's voice sounded in his voice, unbearably loud for being eighty years gone.

 _No, no, you gotta do it properly. Here, let me shove the table out of the road. There._

 _No-one's gonna be scoring points on my feet, Buck. One shuffle looks the same as any other shuffle, what does it matter?_

 _Matters to me, pal. You can't half-ass your art. You wouldn't be happy with a lousy drawing, would you? No. I ain't happy with sloppy footwork, not from myself and not from you. Do it again._

Now Bucky held up a finger. _Stop._

Steve crossed his arms and resting his weight over one leg, the picture of amused forbearance. _What, not good enough for you?_

 _Watch._ Bucky's feet moved through the Cha Cha, fast enough to keep the rhythm going but slow enough for Steve for see where he was going wrong. _There._ One slide repeated and then repeated again, graceful even in jeans and brown leather Rockports. _You get that?_

 _I got it._ Steve copied the slide, committing it to memory. Then he went from the top, making sure to keep his eyes up — _don't stare at your feet when you dance, only schmucks do that —_ and rounded off three perfect sets with a spin. _There. Happy?_

That earned him an approving nod. _Not bad, Rogers._ Bucky's mouth twitched. _Get me out of this chair and I'll show you up in no time, but that wasn't bad at all._

Time to mix it up. Steve held his hands loose at his sides, fingers pointing down, and then thrust his right arm straight into the air and his left arm out at three o'clock. _J._ Alternate meaning: letters to follow.

Bucky's expression flattened. _What. No. Steve._

Steve didn't have flags, but that didn't matter. They weren't signalling from rival mountaintops. Semaphore was flashier than Morse, needing full arm movements rather than a single finger, but it also had the benefit of being faster. And, if you didn't mind doodling lines of dancing stick figures along the margins of your page, you could use it to pass messages when writing letters home.

Right arm at nine o'clock, left arm down. Quarter to six. B.

Ten to two. U.

Quarter to six. C.

Twenty to twelve. K.

Ten to three. Y.

Bucky closed his eyes and shook his head, looking like he'd be pinching the bridge of his nose if he had his hands free. He slashed a horizontal line with flat fingers. It wasn't semaphore, but the message was clear enough. _No, Steve. Just… no._

 _B - U - C - K - Y,_ Steve signed again. _F - U - N._

The response was a flat negative again.

Ugh. Steve slid into the shorthand the Howling Commandos had used during the war — American World War II standard, bastardised with a good helping of Dernier's French and Falsworth's Britishisms — and flashed the sign for _spoilsport._ If any code was unbreakable, that one was, considering he and Bucky were now the only two people alive who knew it.

 _You asked for it,_ Bucky signed back. There wasn't as much bounce to it as Steve had expected.

He looked tired.

 _Okay?_ Steve asked.

Bucky made that facial equivalent of a shrug again. _Yeah. Sorry. Too much talking._

Steve nodded. Even discounting the nonverbal stuff, the last twenty-four hours had probably held more communication than Bucky had had in months. No wonder he was drained. _Acknowledged,_ Steve signed, and added the sign that could mean _at ease_ or _rest_ or _sleep,_ depending on context.

 _Acknowledged,_ Bucky returned.

"Cap, come _on,_ " Tony groaned in his ear. "Please. You've had your fun, now it's time to work. Help me out. Ross is about to flay me alive up here."

Steve ignored him.

The sketchbook and pencil lay on the floor where Steve had left them. He dropped down to sit in his old position against the glass and propped the pad against his bent knees. On the page, Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers were braced back-to-back, shield raised on one side and assault rifle on the other. Two pairs of blazing eyes stared up at him, fierce exultation at odds with the grim set of two mouths. Below the elbows the image faded into another scene, one he'd only just started outlining: Steve at sixteen and Bucky at eighteen, standing side-by-side with arms slung around each other, heads ducked in laughter as they shared a private joke.

He didn't have to think too hard to bring the inspiration to mind. That visit to Smithsonian had left the short black-and-white film clip branded in his memory. He picked up the pencil and went back to work.

Forty minutes later, a quiet _click_ sounded behind him. Ross had finally given the order to release Bucky? Steve didn't look up from his sketching; this was a tricky bit of shading, and Bucky would give him a _look_ if he saw the tongue poking out from behind his teeth while he concentrated.

 _Keep that up and one of these days you're gonna bite it off._

Besides, he'd find out soon enough anyway.

Ten seconds ticked by. Steve pictured Bucky testing the chair, lifting his arms free, making sure the straps weren't going to close again on a whim. Then there came a quiet shift of movement — Bucky standing up — and the pad of footsteps. Steve could hear him move, which meant Bucky _wanted_ Steve to hear him move, which meant either Bucky was doing it deliberately so Steve wouldn't have to twist around and watch him (and wasn't that thoughtful?) or he was doing it deliberately so that Ross and Company wouldn't know just how silently he normally moved.

Or both.

There was a faint possibility that he wasn't doing it deliberately at all. Steve discarded that thought without a flicker.

The footsteps wandered around to the back of the cell, where a slimline toilet sat. They stayed there for a minute and a half, and then returned to the front of the cage. Paced up and down for a few minutes, stretching the kinks out.

Another shuffle of movement and a slight huff of air, directly behind Steve.

He grinned, not lifting his head. The pencil didn't pause.

Of course Bucky would want to settle as close to Steve as he could. They'd always been tactile, even before the tight sleeping quarters and harsh winters of the war. It was good to know that seventy years and several thousand miles hadn't changed that.

Sergeant Barnes might not have been particularly agile, but the Winter Soldier certainly was; Steve was willing to bet that even sitting cross-legged was a leg-width too far away for Bucky's instincts at the moment. He flicked a glance right and then left. His grin widened. Yep. Denim-clad legs stretched out on both sides. He'd been right.

Bucky had lowered himself into a perfect side-split behind Steve, plastered against the glass at his back. If Steve looked around, he knew Bucky's chin would be pressed into the gap over Steve's shoulder, watching lazily as he sketched. And Bucky's right hand…

Steve slipped his left hand over his right shoulder, splaying it against the glass. He felt a tiny vibration, Bucky matching his movement on the other side. If he tried hard he could feel the warmth, fingers tangling, a silent _hello, yes I'm here, don't stop on my account_.

He tipped his head back in a tiny involuntary response, throat tightening, and knew that Bucky had tucked his chin tighter into space over the crook of his neck. It felt stupid, really. It shouldn't have upset him. There was nothing to be upset _by_. But the lump came nonetheless, the sting of almost-tears.

He'd missed this. Missed Bucky.

It was nothing romantic. Nothing sexual. It was just them, Steve and Bucky, friends and brothers. They fit together seamlessly, they always had, and it meant more than he could express that they still did.

"Steve," Bucky murmured. His voice was rough, unsure.

"Ten minutes, Buck."

They had to talk about 1991, Steve knew.

Soon. But not yet. Ten minutes of peace before the storm. Tony could give them that long.

Steve didn't look around. But he tightened his fingers on the glass, a silent _we're okay,_ and then dropped his hand to steady the notepad again.

And went on sketching.


	8. Chapter 8: Stark

**I don't own it.**

 **Chapter 8, here we go. It's early to make up for the last one being late. And because you guys are awesome.**

 **It's the big one.**

 **One chapter and an epilogue left after this.**

* * *

 _8\. Stark_

* * *

At the nine-minute-thirty-second mark, Steve stood and walked across to drop pencil and pad on the desk. Ross would have no patience for delays. The ten minutes of calm had pushed the boundaries enough; he didn't want to make this harder for Tony than it had to be. Better to be prompt. Keep the conflict to a minimum.

When he turned, Bucky was still on the floor, head bowed, hair hanging over his face. His shoulders rose and fell; and then he flattened his feet against the floor and pushed himself up out of the splits with effortless grace. He met Steve's eyes, looking… not happy, exactly, but settled. Resolved.

Steve straddled the wooden chair and folded his arms along the back of it. "You're ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

"How do you want to do this?"

"Ask me questions," Bucky said with the faintest suggestion of a shrug. "I'll answer them. If I can."

"That's it?"

"That's it." Bucky shifted, setting his feet a shoulder-width apart, back straight, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes flickered for a moment as if he couldn't decide where to look. They bounced from Steve to the camera and back to Steve before lifting to stare past his shoulder.

Steve knew the stance. Knew that look. _Sergeant Barnes, reporting for duty._ But there were traces of the Winter Soldier in the set of his jaw, the cool gleam of his eye. And the sweat beading on his temple was pure Bucky. Bucky who still wasn't sure who he was, Bucky who had put himself back together from shattered fragments of his past and cautious slivers of his present.

Steve squared his shoulders. Slowed his breathing. "Will you tell me what happened on December 16, 1991?"

"Mission report." The syllables were clipped, a hint of a Russian accent coming through. "December 16, 1991. Location: New York. Objective: sanction and extract. Extraction target: one briefcase containing five doses of serum, allegedly similar or identical to that created by Abraham Erskine in 1939. Sanction target — "

"Sorry." Steve held up a hand. "What does that mean? Sanction?"

"Sanction," Bucky repeated. The metal plates whirred in his arm. A drop of sweat fell into his eyes. He blinked it away. "Penalty. Deterrent. In this case… termination."

New York. Termination. 1991. Steve's gut clenched at the confirmation of what he'd suspected for two years now. "Thank you. Go on."

"Sanction target: one human, male age 74. Possible second target, female age 68. Possible third target, male age 21."

Tony took a swift breath in his ear. Steve muted his earpiece. This would be hard enough without hearing the fallout from upstairs.

"Sanction target level: eight. High importance. Low risk. The Asset — " Bucky broke off. The polished mask splintered and fell; he clenched his eyes shut, grimaced, and continued, sans accent. " _I_ was to ensure no witnesses. Make it look like an accident."

"Did they tell you the target's name?"

Bucky swallowed. "Affirmative." His hands fell loose to his sides, metal fingers curling nervously.

Steve waited.

"Sanction target: human male, age 74. Name." Bucky's chin quivered. His eyes opened to stare bleakly through Steve. "Howard Anthony Walter Stark."

Steve sagged in his seat. Howard. Bucky had killed Howard. No — Hydra had killed Howard. But they'd used Bucky to pull the trigger.

He had suspected. Zola had mentioned the car accident two years ago, had implied that Hydra had a hand in it. And Bucky — the Winter Soldier — had carried out a couple dozen assassinations for Hydra. Had been active around that time.

But he hadn't _known_.

And now he did.

Again, Bucky's discipline broke. He shoved a shaking hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. His eyes were a storm of guilt and rage and loathing. "Howard," he rasped. "I killed Howard."

Steve passed a hand over his eyes. If this was hard for him, it had to be ten times worse for Bucky. And _Tony._ He didn't even want to think about how Tony was reacting to this. But it wouldn't be enough for Everett Ross. Broussard had worked his way in here to ask Bucky about that night; three words, no matter how ground-shaking, wouldn't cut it.

He had to ask. And he knew that Bucky would tell. Because it was Steve asking.

 _You think they don't know how to use that to their advantage?_

He felt sick. "Can you tell me more?"

Bucky's face crumpled. He stared at Steve in silent pleading. His mouth framed a single word: _please._

He didn't say it aloud.

Maybe he couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Steve said. The words ripped from his aching chest. "But we have to know the truth."

Bucky's hands trembled at his sides. He blinked. Made a tiny wordless noise of anguish in the back of his throat. And jerked a nod.

"The Asset — _get out._ " Bucky snarled and flicked his head.

Steve started up out of the chair.

"It's okay _,_ " Bucky said. "Sorry. Delineating."

Steve settled again.

" _I_. Um. I used a bike. Motorcycle. Waited for the car to go past, caught up, knifed the tire. Ran the car off the road. They — " Bucky swayed forward. He braced himself on the glass, fingers digging in, and fixed tortured eyes on Steve. "They were still alive." He shivered. "Howard dragged himself out of the car. Saw me standing there. I remember… he said _my wife. Please. Help my wife._ And she just kept saying his name. Over and over again. _Howard. Howard. Howard._ "

Steve wanted to close his eyes, wanted to let himself flinch away and curl up and pretend that it wasn't Bucky, his Bucky, recounting Howard's last moments. But Bucky was leaning into the glass, staring at him like the eye contact was the only thing keeping him upright. So Steve held his gaze and tried to breathe.

"He recognised me." Bucky's voice cracked. "I… I don't know. Maybe it would have been easier if he hadn't. If I'd just been another nameless Hydra goon. But he knew me." His mouth worked, that lost look stealing back into his gaze. "He knew me." He blinked. Frowned. Steve could see him hauling himself back to reality. "I think… even then, I think he tried to pull me out of it. He called me by name. Not Bucky — did he know me as Bucky?"

Steve opened his mouth, but Bucky didn't seem to expect an answer. He went on.

"Not James. _Sergeant Barnes,_ he said." His mouth quirked, that same ghost of a sarcastic smile from Bucharest. "Clever."

"Why was it clever?" The words tumbled from Steve's mouth. His lips felt numb.

"Associative memories. Trying to call up the war connection. It failed, of course, but it was a good try. Had more of a chance of working than anything else he could've said." Bucky shook his head. "I hate it. I hate that he recognised me."

"Why?"

"Bad enough that I killed him." Bucky's face was pale. His eyes blazed. He looked like he was about to vomit. "That I betrayed him. But for him to _know_ that?" His voice rose. "His last words would have been for his wife. If I hadn't been there. But I was. I _was._ He looked me in the eye, and he called me by name and rank, and _I killed him anyway._ His last words were _my name_. And I killed him."

"It wasn't you," Steve said, trying to keep his voice steady and failing. "It wasn't your fault. Hydra pulled the trigger, not you."

"Trigger?" Bucky's forehead wrinkled. "You think there are bullets in a car accident?"

Steve's stomach dropped. His grip tightened on the chair back.

"I punched his face in." The metal hand clenched into a fist. "I can still feel the blood. The broken bones. He was so old. So fragile. It was _easy._ " Tears welled in Bucky's eyes. Overflowed. He didn't seem to notice. "It shouldn't have been so easy. I mean… it's _Howard._ He's the same age as me. He was born the same year. Why didn't he fight?"

He was surprised Bucky remembered that. The age difference. Bucky was — or he had been, back in the forties — five months older than Howard. March 10 and August 15, both born in 1917. Steve was a year younger, born 1918. And then Peggy had been three years younger than Steve, born 1921.

"He was 74," Steve said gently. "And injured. In shock."

 _Howard hadn't been kept in cryo between supersoldier missions for the last fifty years,_ he didn't say.

"And his wife…" Bucky took a gulping breath. "I didn't even know her name. Do know. Looked it up when the memories came back. Maria Collins Carbonell Stark. She said his name, over and over and over. _Howard. Howard._ She must have heard… I lifted him back into the car. She — she saw." The lines around his eyes pinched as if he wanted to close them. But he still didn't break contact with Steve. "Started crying. I went around to her side of the car. And." His flesh hand flexed on the glass. His eyes were bright and wet, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I strangled her." Something dark and bitter flashed across his face. "I strangled her," he said again, voice thick. "Didn't even give her the respect of looking at her while I did it. Just watched the road for traffic and squeezed. Took out the cameras afterward. Retrieved the briefcase. Went home. They debriefed me. Wiped me. Put me back in cryo. Mission completed."

"It wasn't your fault," Steve said. It was all he could think to say.

Bucky snarled, pure animalistic fury flashing across his face —

 _SHUT UP! —_

and for a moment Steve thought that was it, he'd pushed too far, goodbye Bucky Barnes, hello Winter Soldier. But Bucky shoved both hands through his hair and held tight, cradling his head like he was trying to keep his brain from leaking out. His shoulders slumped. He sagged against the glass, all the fight gone, and his _face…_

Steve had never seen him look so defeated.

"Shut up, Steve." The words were a whisper. A sob. Nerves flayed raw and exposed for all the world to see. Bucky turned his head, pressed his left cheek to the glass. The skin around his eye socket turned white where it met the wall.

And finally, finally, he closed his eyes.

"Buck — "

"Don't." His hands tightened in his hair, pressing harder and harder like they could stop his body from shaking itself to pieces. His voice stayed eerily calm. "You weren't there. You don't know what it was like. What they did. Please don't pretend that you do."

Steve's heart hurt. He would have spared Bucky this if he could, because there was no good time to find out that your best friend had video files of you being tortured. But if it would help Bucky to _understand…_ "I do, actually."

"No. You don't."

He waited for Bucky to open his eyes before he made a move, pushing up from the wooden chair and coming forward to stand in front of Bucky. He pressed a hand to the glass and waited.

Bucky stared at him, eyes shadowed. Exhausted. Drained. It took a minute, but he peeled the flesh hand from his head and matched it to Steve's. The metal hand stayed tangled in his hair.

"I know some of it," Steve said. He excised any trace of pity from his tone, but let the affection and the anger and protectiveness seep through. "I was given your file two years ago. Almost every Hydra base we've taken down since then, I've added something to it. Pictures. Notes. Audio. Video. There's a lot in it, now."

Deep down in Bucky's eyes, shame glinted.

"The bank in DC was one of the first ones we found. We know what Pierce did. Rumlow. Rollins. If they weren't already dead — "

"Rumlow's dead?"

 _He remembered you, you know. Your friend, your pal, your Bucky…_

"Yeah."

Bucky's face wrinkled, a jumble of emotion running riot across it as if he wasn't sure how to react. "That's — good. I think."

"Suicide," Steve said. The scent of burning flesh filled his nostrils. He banished it. "We found him on a mission in Lagos the other week. He tried to take me down with him, but not before he'd gloated about what they did to you."

"Right."

"Fury killed Pierce. Pity. I would've liked to have a go at him, myself."

Bucky's eyes slid sideways, narrowing. Seeking. "I should know that name." The words were hesitant. "Not Fury. The other one."

"Pierce?"

A nod. "It feels…" His metal hand fell to twist in the shirt over his sternum. "But I don't know why _._ "

Steve paused, thinking. He could offer… but it might do more harm than good.

Or it might help Bucky to understand.

Wouldn't know unless he asked.

"I've got the video clip," he said. "From the bank. After that first run-in on the overpass. If you want to see it. It might jog something."

Bucky ran a hand over his face, and emerged looking more himself than he had since they started talking. He looked more tired, too. Steve hadn't thought it was possible. "Sure. Let's do that."

"You don't have to — "

"Steve." Bucky shot him a patient look. "I know what they did to me, okay? And I know I don't _have_ to. I _want_ to. Quit fussing."

"Okay." He engaged his earpiece.

Natasha came through a second later. "Queuing it now, Steve. Screen on the wall to your left."

The footage was in black and white. Steve had seen it before, many times, but he still felt like someone had punched him in the gut when he saw Bucky — the Winter Soldier — sitting half-naked in a room of armed men, waiting docilely while they worked on his metal arm. He stole a glance at Bucky in the cell. Saw guarded curiosity, but not much more. He folded his arms over his chest, leaned shoulder to hip against the glass, and turned back to watch the screen.

Steve still couldn't pinpoint what set Bucky off. One moment he lay back in the chair, the next he knocked a technician across the room and sat up, braced for action — and promptly froze as the guns came to bear.

And remained frozen, staring at nothing, until Alexander Pierce walked into the room twenty minutes later like he owned the place.

"Sir," one of the guards said. Steve could have recited the words in his sleep. "He's unstable. Erratic."

Pierce brushed the warning off. Strode forward to stand half a pace from Bucky, Brock Rumlow at his side. "Mission report."

Bucky didn't move. Didn't even blink.

"Mission report," Pierce snapped. "Now."

Bucky stared straight through him with that too-familiar lost look.

Pierce bent down, head tilted, studying him. The backhand came out of nowhere, flinging Bucky's head to the side.

Steve tamped down on his anger. In the cage beside him, Bucky flinched, head snapping around with the echo of the slap. But there was no spark of recognition. Just pure conditioned response. He turned back to the video, face impassive, and pressed closer to the glass. Closer to Steve.

On the screen, Bucky looked at Pierce. No sign of pain. No sign that he'd even registered the slap. "The man on the bridge," he said. "Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment."

Bucky absorbed that. His eyes fell from Pierce's. "I knew him." And he crumpled in on himself, staring at the floor as Pierce gave his little speech, _we need you to do your part, blah blah blah_. Steve tuned out the words and glanced at his Bucky here. Still nothing.

Pierce fell silent.

On the wall, Bucky's forehead creased. He looked down, mouth working. Steve had parsed this a hundred times: Bucky was confused. Adrift. Clinging to that tattered sliver of memory. His voice came again, a tremulous murmur. Nervous. Questions invited punishment, invited pain. But he was desperate enough to risk it. "But I knew him."

Pierce shook his head and for a moment their faces were identical, Pierce and Bucky wearing twin expressions of resignation.

Steve turned away as Pierce gave the order for the wipe. He didn't need to see Bucky's face, the tears, the turmoil of bewilderment and fear and sick longing. The flash of defiance as the mouthguard went in, the iron resolve to safeguard this one shred of memory that was truly _Bucky's._ He'd memorised it long ago.

He tried to tune out the screaming. It never worked. He concentrated on Bucky here, safe and lucid, stable. Missing some pieces, sure, but overall… overall it was more than he'd ever dared expect.

Bucky's face was still pressed to the glass, skin white around his left temple and cheekbone.

Steve's heart skipped a beat. "Bucky!"

Bucky started. His head came up from the glass. "What?"

"Nothing." Steve felt his heart settle again as the blood flowed back into Bucky's face, wiping away the pressure marks that were so similar to where the machine held him. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay."

The screen went blank as the video ended.

"Remember anything?" Steve asked.

"No." Bucky's mouth twisted. "The chair in other places, yeah. Rumlow. But not there."

"It'll come back." A thought struck Steve. He jolted. "Home."

"What?"

"Earlier. You said you retrieved the briefcase with the serum and went home."

Bucky's teeth dug into his lip. His eyes darted sideways. "Yeah."

"Where's home?"

"Good question."

Steve straightened his shoulders. Pinned Bucky with a look. "Buck."

"Siberia," Bucky said. He shifted to mirror Steve's stance — whether consciously or not, Steve couldn't tell. "That's where the main facility is. Where they kept me. Cryo, training, all of that."

"And the serum?"

"Yeah." Bucky swallowed. "That's the thing. I'm not the only Winter Soldier."


	9. Chapter 9: Release

**I don't own it.**

 **And on we go. Just the epilogue left after this. Don't worry, it's the same length as a normal chapter, so you won't get short-changed.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

 _9\. Release_

* * *

Things moved rapidly after that small bombshell. Steve had barely started quizzing Bucky for more info before Natasha's voice came through his earpiece.

"Steve, we need you upstairs."

"I'm busy," Steve snapped. "Didn't you hear what Bucky said? We need — "

" _We,_ " Natasha said again, patient through gritted teeth, "need you here. Ross is going ballistic, Tony's — what?" Muffled conversation at the other end, and then she was back. "Okay, strike that. Sounds like we're coming to you. Don't go anywhere. And keep your comm on."

Steve somehow managed not to roll his eyes. "Wouldn't dream of it. Yeah. Okay. See you soon."

"What was that?" Bucky asked.

"Natasha. They're coming down here. Probably want to question you themselves, make some plans."

Bucky's jaw tightened. His eyes darted to the door. "Probably."

"I'll be right here, okay? I'm not leaving, Buck."

"Sure." He didn't sound convinced. His eyes went to the door again. The metal plates whirred in his arm.

"I won't let them hurt you," Steve said.

Bucky looked at him. The tension eased. "I know you won't. But. You know."

Steve read the thought clearly as it crossed his face. _Leverage._

A cursory knock on the door heralded the arrival of their company. Steve pivoted, automatically angling his body in front of Bucky as the guys from upstairs trooped in: Everett Ross, Sharon, a handful of aides. Natasha and T'Challa. Tony slunk in, red-eyed and shell-shocked, tie loose, hair dishevelled. He studiously avoided looking at either Steve or Bucky. Sam came last, taking up position beside the door and nodding reassurance at Steve.

The newcomers dragged the desk into the middle of the room and set up chairs around it, making as solid a conference table as Steve had ever seen. He'd made do with far worse in the past: jeep hoods, storage crates, tree stumps, bare ground brushed free of snow.

Ross took a seat at the head of the table. "If you'd like to join us, Captain Rogers?"

The amount of condescension the man could pack into one sentence was stunning. Steve set his jaw. "You know, I don't think I would. Why are you here?"

"To gather intel."

"From me?" asked Bucky. He folded his arms and shifted his weight to one leg, looking unimpressed.

"That's the general idea, yes."

"What if I don't want to tell you?"

"You will."

Steve stilled. "Is that a threat?"

"Does it need to be?"

"Guys," Tony interrupted. "Please." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Cap, we're trying to help, okay? We need to know anything Barnes can — " He broke off, mouth working. Took a breath. "Can tell us about the other soldiers."

"If you hadn't barged in here, you'd know already," Bucky drawled. "Because I would have told Steve."

"We'd prefer it if you told us," said Ross.

"You know, I'm not the most communicative around people who have tortured me."

"Really? Because you seemed pretty talkative with Alexander Pierce."

Steve stepped forward, fists clenching, but Sharon got there first.

"Sir!"

"What, Carter?"

"With all due respect, you saw that video feed. Barnes was clearly a _victim_ in that situation, not a partner."

"In that situation, yes. Which leaves about a million other situations we're not aware of, plus several we _are_ aware of where he lead a team of Russians doing their level best to kill American citizens."

"He was brainwashed," Sharon protested.

"So he says."

"I want him out of the cage," Steve said.

Ross and Sharon turned to stare at him in surprise.

"I'm sorry?" said Ross.

"You want our help? You want to know what he knows?"

"Yes."

"Then I want him out of the cage."

"If you think I'm letting a mass-murderer loose in a room full of — "

"You think I'm bad?" Bucky said. "The other guys are worse _._ You won't have a hope of stopping them without us."

 _Thank you, Bucky._ "He's the best shot you've got at ending the threat," Steve said. "And I'm with Tony, even if unofficially. We want to help. Bucky's on _our side,_ Commander."

"Your side," Tony muttered. He still didn't look at their end of the room.

"You want us to tell you what we know? You want us to be equal members of this team? You'd better start treating us like it. Which means getting Bucky _out of the cage._ I'll vouch for him."

"Means a lot," said Ross. "Coming from a criminal. Really."

Tony sighed. "Like I said before, I'll vouch for Rogers."

"So will I," said Natasha. "And for Wilson, too."

"I'll vouch for Barnes," said Sam unexpectedly.

Ross looked sour. "Well, aren't you just one big happy family."

"We're not," Tony said. "And you know it. In light of that, the fact that I'm still supporting him should mean something — if you're smart enough to see it."

Sharon winced.

"Thin ice, Stark," growled Ross.

Bucky's eyes flickered to Tony. Widened in horror. He looked back to Steve, and he must have read the confirmation there — _yeah, that's Howard's kid. And he heard everything —_ because he winced before blanking his expression again.

Tony shrugged. "What can I say, it's been a rough day."

"Bucky?" Steve asked.

"Yeah?"

"You promise not to kill anyone here if they let you out?"

"Yeah, pal. I promise."

"Thank you." Steve lifted a hand to rap on the cage. "Now do you think — "

 _Zap-crack._

He stumbled back with a cry of pain, jerking his hand away from the glass. Red-hot knives stabbed him. Fire lanced through his fingers, shooting up the nerves into his arm. He lowered his gaze and saw his hand shaking, the fingers curling inward and cramping already. Burns rose where he'd touched the glass, bubbling to the surface and searing with heat.

Bucky leapt forward, face a mask of rage, and swung his metal fist into the glass. The wall shuddered but held. Another zap, blue electricity arcing from the wall up through the metal. Sparks flew.

Ross shouted something. Steve couldn't hear what, but he saw motion in the corner of his eyes as they dove for their guns —

Bucky snarled and shook his arm out, fingers twisting. Even through the blur of Steve's pain, the movement looked clumsy and slow. That zap had done some damage.

Bucky's right hand came up in a fist, ready to lash out, but _no Bucky no that's skin flesh bone don't —_

 _"_ _Buck! Stop!"_

Bucky froze, fist still raised.

"It's okay," Steve said, voice shaking. "It's okay, Bucky, I'm fine. It's healing already, look, hey. _Hey_. Look at me."

Bucky's eyes flicked sideways to Steve. He took in the damaged hand at a glance. The burns were already receding. His hand flexed and fell to his side. "Let me out."

"After _that?_ " Ross snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Let me out or I'll break the wall down."

"The electric shocks — "

"I don't care about pain." Bucky met Ross' gaze calmly. "Let me out. Next person who hurts him, I'll rip their eardrums out through their sphincter."

Ross held the stare and then nodded.

"And put the guns down," Steve added. "If he wanted you dead, you'd be dead already." He brought his hand to his chest and bit down on a hiss. _Ow._ The burns were fading, but slowly, and they hurt a _lot_.

A slim hand took his elbow. "Steve. Sit down."

Natasha. He let her guide him down into a chair, gritting his teeth as the motion jostled his hand.

"What was that?" Sam asked.

"A precaution," said Ross, taking out his phone. "Preventative measures. High-ranking officials in a room with homicidal maniac, can't be too careful." He tapped at the screen. The front wall of the cage started to lower into the ground.

"Nice work," Natasha said. The sarcasm was evident. She whipped out a first-aid kit from somewhere and flipped it open. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Steve caught his breath as her probing fingers caught the raw edge of a burn.

"Yeah, you look fine."

"Nothing a painkiller won't fix."

Bucky snorted. "Steve, you and I both know your system burns through even professional painkillers in less than an hour. Bog-standards won't do nothing." As the wall came down to waist height, he vaulted over it and strode across to Steve. "Hand."

Steve suppressed a sigh and lifted his hand. "It's not as bad as it looks."

Bucky ignored him.

This, at least, was familiar territory. The burns were fading, Steve knew it and he knew that Bucky knew it. But Bucky shoved the sleeve of his leather jacket up and slathered everything in burn cream anyway, and then wrapped it with a bandage. The whole operation took two minutes.

"There," Bucky said, letting go of Steve's arm. "You hurt anywhere else?"

Steve shook his head.

"You sure?"

" _Yes,_ Buck. I'm sure."

"Because my memory might have more holes than Gabe's parachute, but I remember that time you were fine right up until you collapsed coming out of Drusenheim, and I had to haul your sorry backside over my shoulder and carry you ten miles to the rendezvous while Dernier watched our tail and nearly missed an enemy scout that I would have seen a mile away."

Well. He supposed he deserved that. "I swear, Buck, I'm not hurt anywhere else."

"Good." Bucky dropped into the chair beside Steve, sitting close enough to bump legs, and flashed a sharp smile around the table. "Now, ladies and gentlemen. What did you want to ask us?"

The guns had vanished back into their holsters, Steve noticed. Ross and his minions were once more the picture of polished and corrupt bureaucracy.

"Where's the facility?" Ross asked. "Who are the other Winter Soldiers? How many? Who controls them?"

"Russia. Siberia. I can pinpoint it on a map for you. Coordinates — " He rattled off a string of numbers. "There are five of them. Or there _were_ five, two years ago. That might have changed by now."

Tony frowned. "Why would it have changed?"

"Because their prototype went rogue," Bucky said drily. "And the _brat'ya,_ the other soldiers — "

Natasha darted a look at Bucky, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

" — they weren't the most stable to begin with. Didn't have the same training, the same control. If all it takes is the right person and the right words to break _my_ seventy years of conditioning…" He shrugged. "They're gonna be a tad wary about using the others. But then, I wasn't Hydra before they took me. These guys were. They're loyal beyond reason. Willingly."

"Who are they?" Steve asked.

"Elite death squad. They've worked together for years. Individually they've got more kills than anyone else in Hydra history — and that was before the serum."

Well. That was encouraging. Not.

Sam spoke up from his position beside the door. "Did they all turn out like you?"

"Worse." Bucky's eyes darkened. "They volunteered for the job. I didn't."

"Skillset?"

"They can speak thirty languages. Use any weapon. Experts in unarmed combat. They can hide in plain sight, infiltrate, assassinate, destabilise. Take down a whole country in one night. You'd never see them coming."

"And, uh." Tony drummed his fingers on the table, staring at the wall. "How many languages can you speak?"

Bucky's jaw tightened. "Twenty nine."

"What's the thirtieth? The one you're missing."

"If I knew, I would have learned it by now."

"Can you beat them?" Ross asked.

Steve heard what he didn't say: _Can you eliminate the threat by yourself? I don't want to risk my own people. And if you get fatally injured doing it, well… that would be real pity, wouldn't it?_ He tensed.

And relaxed as Bucky tapped his knee under the table.

They traded a considering look.

"Not by myself," Bucky said eventually. "With a team, we'd have a good chance. Depends if the _brat'ya_ are awake or not."

"Are they likely to be awake? And stick to English, please."

"Sure thing, comrade." One second he was smiling, bright and merciless, and the next his face was like stone. He shrugged. "It's been two years, I'm a bit out of the loop. But I haven't heard any chatter about them. There's a good chance they're still asleep."

Everett Ross nodded and made a note on his phone. "I assume you'll want the Captain to accompany you?"

Like Steve would let Bucky walk in there by himself. Hell, he'd stow away in Bucky's pack if he had to.

"I'd like _Steve_ to, yeah," Bucky said evenly.

"Who else?"

"Wilson's a good fighter."

Sam took the compliment with a surprised nod. "Thanks, man."

"Tony?" Steve asked. "We could use the help."

Tony flipped a pen through his fingers and looked at Ross. "You'll send a tac team in?"

"I can't risk my guys," Ross said flatly. "Not against enhanced individuals."

"Right." He looked down, one eyebrow lifting.

Steve wanted to shake him. _Stop being so thick, Tony! Can't you see they're just using you to do their dirty work? They don't care about you, they'll drop you as soon as you're done being useful!_

From the look on her face, Natasha had long since realised as much. "I'd like to go with them," she said. "I've worked with Rogers before, and not just on Shield business."

Ross nodded. "I can sanction that. We don't want a team comprised solely of criminals, now, do we?"

"They're doing you a favour," Tony said without looking up. "And until they sign the Accords, Rogers and Wilson are technically retired. In light of the situation, I think we can drop the charges."

"That decision isn't up to me. This mission is a one-off; when they get back, they'll be evaluated and sent to a maximum security lock-off until the panel decides what to do with them."

Under the table, Bucky's metal fingers tightened on Steve's knee. "And me?"

"Same thing." Ross's eyes went to the cage. "Might just be a little more… secure. In your case."

Steve gritted his teeth. They thought Bucky had blown up the UN building. He had no doubt that _secure_ meant _painful._

"I would like to go with them." T'Challa spoke softly, but the words carried a weight of authority. "As a member of the United Nations, I want to know that this threat is neutralised."

"Your Highness, the position is complicated — "

"You going to kill me?" Bucky broke in.

"I wanted to. But now?" T'Challa shook his head. "I do not know if you killed my father or not. But I saw that video, as they did. You were not a willing participant. I saw no evidence that you had a choice in the matter."

Bucky swallowed. Jerked a nod. "I. Yeah. I didn't."

"I will not force you. If you wish for me to not accompany you…"

Bucky looked at Steve. An entire conversation passed between them in seconds, pros and cons and _can we trust him_ and _can we afford not to take him when we know what we could be facing there_. Steve tapped a two-beat on Bucky's wrist: _I say yes but it's your decision, pal._

"No," said Bucky. "No, it's fine. I… _We_ would appreciate you fighting with us. Thank you."

Ross pursed his lips. "Barnes, Rogers, Wilson, T'Challa. Romanoff. Your team's looking a bit lopsided in favour of the shady side of the law. Stark, go with them."

"Commander — "

"Rhodes is out, I need him elsewhere, and Romanoff alone isn't enough to make the paperwork look any good. I'll have your jet prepped for you. Launch in two hours."

Tony blew out a breath. "Fine. Okay."

"Our gear — " Steve started.

"Carter, sort it out."

"Yes, sir."

Everett Ross stood. His aides and Sharon stood with him.

"Do me a favour and stay in this sector until the jet's prepped," he said. "Bathroom's down the hall, so is a kitchen. It's fully stocked. Help yourself."

"Thank you," said Tony. "Sir."

Ross either didn't hear the edge to the words or pretended not to hear it. "Sure. Wouldn't want to break up the family." He flashed them a smile that was somehow both threatening and completely empty, and swept out of the room with his entourage.

Tony shoved his chair back with a screech. "Bathroom," he said abruptly, and slipped out the door.

Steve bit back a sigh. The reaction wasn't surprising. Bucky had publicly and emotionally admitted to murdering his parents, after all. It was a hell of a way for Tony to find out. But his avoiding them would only make things harder in the long run. Maybe they could corner him on the ride to Siberia.

Under the table, out of view of the cameras, Natasha's hand found his leg. _Wait until we're on the jet to talk,_ she signalled. He tapped acknowledgement and passed the message on to Bucky while she moved across to T'Challa and Sam.

"How's the hand?" Bucky asked out loud.

Steve flexed it experimentally. "Not bad. It's probably nearly healed. Give it an hour and we'll have a look."

"Okay."

"Sorry. I forgot to ask." Of course, there was no guarantee Bucky would remember…

"What?" Bucky asked.

He grinned. "You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"

"Jaws of death, gates of hell, end of the line." Bucky laughed. "Hell, no." He slung an arm around Steve's shoulders and pulled him close. "That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight. I'm following him."


	10. Epilogue

**I don't own it.**

 **Here we go. The epilogue. And Siberia. Yay!**

 **Chapter 4 of _Barton, Undercover_ should be up later today for those of you who are following that.**

* * *

 _Epilogue_

* * *

Tony knocked out the audio recorders ten minutes after takeoff and promptly turned on Bucky — and by extension, Steve. The shouting match lasted forty minutes; the tears and aborted attempts to punch a wall ( _"Do you want this mission to be over before it's even started?"_ ), another fifteen. A dozen rounds of apologies later, the air finally settled. Neither Tony nor Bucky looked happy, but they could at least stomach working with each other for the duration of the mission.

T'Challa cast an eye over the shelves in Clint's locker and borrowed a book. Sam started up a conversation with Tony about his armour. Natasha shrugged into a hoodie, settled cross-legged in the pilot's seat, and blared music through her headphones.

Steve dragged Bucky off to the far corner of the cabin and wrapped a blanket around both of them. "It's a nine hour flight to Yakutsk and you're exhausted. You need sleep."

"Speak for yourself," Bucky mumbled, already burrowing into Steve's shoulder. His eyes fluttered closed and then cracked open. "We safe here?"

" _Da, soldat._ " Natasha stuck her head around the corner from the cockpit, headphones shoved back from one ear. "You're safe. Until we get to that facility, at any rate."

"Good. You speak Russian?"

"No," she said, deadpan.

Bucky stared at her.

"Buck?" Steve prompted.

"Yeah. Sorry. Can we stick to English, please? I really don't want my mind reverting to Russkiy when we're h — at the base."

Natasha nodded. "English it is." She vanished.

Bucky's eyes closed. Steve yawned. Two minutes later they were fast asleep.

x

"Remember the time you got sloppy drunk at that Christmas party?"

The stories had started on their first mission as a team. Bucky had been clinging to the overhead rail of the plane, checking his parachute straps for the fiftieth time and looking an inch away from losing his breakfast. Steve himself hadn't felt too good, what with the churning anxiety in his gut and a lingering lightheadedness from last-minute blood tests. He'd blurted out some tale from home, anything to get their minds off the upcoming drop that would plummet them into enemy territory.

It had worked, to his surprise. And the stories had stuck.

"Buck?" Steve prompted.

Thoughtful silence from Bucky, and then, darkly amused: "If I said I didn't remember… I don't suppose you'd believe me?"

"Well I wouldn't _now_. You came crashing in and nearly overturned the bookcase — "

Bucky groaned. "I kept calling you Mary-Anne, right? And telling you — "

"Telling me I had the prettiest hair in all of New York." Steve grinned.

"Kept running my fingers through it."

"Like it was catnip or something, yeah."

Bucky checked his assault rifle and started down the exit ramp to where the others were waiting. "I've got the prettiest hair now."

"Keep telling yourself that, pal."

Armoured up and weapons in hand, the six of them stole into the base through a back entrance. Bucky led the way down through twisting corridors to the cryo room, practically silent even in heavy combat boots. The only one quieter was T'Challa — and Steve was starting to wonder if the guy was actually part feline, because no matter how hard he strained his enhanced senses, he couldn't hear a sound from T'Challa's feet. Breathing, yes. Footsteps, no.

Maybe it was the outfit. Sound dampeners in the boots. Or something.

Six huge cryo chambers were spaced around the room. Five of them glowed golden, shadowy figures lying behind clouded glass. The sixth sat dark and empty. Bucky stopped and stared up at it for a long moment, face unreadable, and then moved on.

"This guy's asleep," Natasha said.

"This one, too," said T'Challa from across the floor.

Three men, two women. They were all asleep. Unconscious. Whatever the right word was for being in cryostasis.

"So Broussard was going to wake them up," Tony said. "That was his plan, right? Interrogate Barnes for intel on the serum and the location, and then come up here and wake them?"

Sam swore. "Dude would have an army at his fingertips."

"No, he wouldn't," Bucky said quietly.

Five pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

"He'd be dead. Even with me, the book would only have taken him so far. Without the commands being reinforced by training, by authority… To do it properly would take years." He nodded at the chambers. "And their first instinct was always to attack. Especially if they thought they might be separated."

"So we'd have five rogue Winter Soldiers on our hands?" Tony asked. "That's what you're saying?"

"Yeah."

Natasha hummed. "That better or worse than having them under some nut-job scientist?"

"Hard to say."

Steve fought back a shiver. He'd seen a lot in his lifetime, but something about the sleeping figures… knowing who they were, what they were capable of, knowing that Bucky had been one of them not so long ago… it gave him the creeps. But this wasn't his territory. "What do we do, Buck?"

Bucky smiled sadly. "Sanction and extract." He hesitated. "I know they were… evil, for lack of a better word. And I hated them. But they were my _brat'ya._ "

"Your brothers," Natasha said softly. "And sisters."

"Yes." He looked almost pleading. "Please. Let me do it."

Steve waved him forward wordlessly.

Bucky went about it methodically, neither speeding through the task nor drawing it out. At each chamber he laid a hand on the glass, murmured something hoarse and broken under his breath, and shot them between the eyes with his pistol. Steve guessed it was a small dignity, in a way. A show of respect. Giving them a clean death, an expert shot.

When Bucky finished he stepped around to join Steve and the others, and turned to face the pit in the centre of the room.

Steve's stomach lurched. He hadn't really looked at the pit before: the wide flat circle, the machines and cables, the operating chair in the middle. He recognised it now, though. From the videos, the pictures, the endless clinical records.

Bucky stepped down into the pit. Turned grey. Doubled over and vomited.

If there had been any doubt in his mind, that erased it. Watching Bucky's anguished face, his shaking body, Steve knew this was where his best friend had been tortured. Had had his memory wiped, painfully, _agonisingly_ , over and over again for decades.

Bucky swayed back against the railing and crumpled to sit on the step. He drew a shuddering breath and looked back at Steve.

"I can't." He gestured with trembling hands at the machine. "I — I _can't._ " His mouth worked soundlessly. That lost, confused look crept into his eyes. "Why can't I — ?"

"It's okay," Steve murmured. He padded forward to stand beside Bucky, close enough that the metal arm pressed against his calf.

Bucky stared at the chair. "It hurt me."

The statement was so simple, so childlike, that Steve's chest tightened.

"So why can't I — ?" Bucky made a soft noise of frustration. His jaw trembled.

 _Enough._ Steve crouched down in front of him. He threaded his fingers through Bucky's hair, cradling his temples, and brought his head around to look at Steve. "Bucky."

The response took longer than it should have. "Steve."

"Do you trust me?"

That ghost of a smile came back, breathtakingly sad. "You're the only one I _do_ trust."

"Let me do it for you?"

Bucky stilled. Looked at Steve. His head moved in a motion that might have a nod or a shake. A pause, and then the movement came again.

Steve waited until he was sure it was a nod before he stood.

"Here." Bucky proffered his rifle. "And — don't go alone. Please."

Slow anger coiled in Steve's gut, tendrils reaching out to flood his limbs with fire. He heard what Bucky didn't say. _Don't go alone — like I was. Don't lose yourself to it like I did. It's dangerous. Please, Steve, I can't lose you._ He shook his head and pushed the gun gently back to Bucky's knees. Squeezed his shoulder. "I don't need it. Sam?"

Sam strode forward, grim-faced. He'd read the file. He knew what this place was. "Ready when you are."

Working in silence, they took the pit apart with their bare hands. The blood sang in Steve's veins, a triumphant roar to drown the dull insidious hum of the machines. They smashed the monitors, snapped the cables. Tore the IV lines from their anchor points. Brought down the overhead surgical lights with gritted teeth and a whine of contorting metal. The humming fell silent soon enough.

The chair came last.

Muscles bulging, sweating with the heat of righteous rage, they ripped it from the ground. _Never again,_ Steve swore as the concrete foundations cracked and broke. _Never again,_ as he wrenched the headrest clean off. They overturned the seat and broke it into a dozen shattered pieces. _Never. Again._ as they pounded the remnants into the ground.

When it was done, Steve went back to Bucky and tugged him into a hug, heedless of the dust and the dirt that coated them both. He felt Bucky tremble and clutched him tighter. He was sure Bucky could feel _him_ shaking, too. Necessary this whole shindig might have been, but it took a toll.

The shivering petered out. Bucky drew back and looped a hand around Steve's wrist. "I remember this," he said softly.

"What?"

Two fingers wormed their way between his sleeve and glove. They tapped the pulse point on the inside of his wrist. "When you were sick. Used to sit like this for hours, just feeling you breathe… I remember being terrified that this time you weren't gonna pull through, that — that you were too sick, too broken, that I hadn't done enough — "

Steve shushed him. "You're not broken."

Bucky swallowed. He didn't say anything.

"You're _not._ You're confused, sure, and missing a few pieces, and that's _fine_. It's fine, Buck. We'll get those pieces back. The memories will come back."

"What if they don't?"

"Then we'll make new ones. Art galleries, science expos, saving the world another couple times… you name it, we'll do it. Together."

Bucky's grip tightened and then released. He nodded. "Help me up?"

Steve hauled him to his feet. The head slap came out of nowhere, Bucky's flesh hand glancing off the back of his helmet. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Stark Expo, 1943. Giving you your stupid back, punk." His eyes softened. "Thank you."

x

Tony took a million and one photos of the destruction — "Ross will want to see evidence," — as well as a quick video. Then they wound their way back through deserted corridors toward the outside.

Two turns away from the entrance, Tony stopped them with a hiss.

"What is it?" Steve asked, tensing. He hadn't heard anything, but the sensors in the Iron Man suit were world-class. "Hostiles?"

"No." Tony shoved a hand through his hair, eyes shadowed. "Look, before we get back in range of the jet's sensors… what's the plan here?"

"Plan?" Sam asked.

"Plan, yes." He looked around at their blank faces and sighed. "I'm not taking you back to Ross."

Steve drew a sharp breath. "What?"

"He wants to lock you up. That was never — " Tony bit his lip. "I never wanted that. You were just trying to do right by Barnes, I know that. You're not criminals. You're my friends. And Ross — it's not just any prison. He's planning to send you to the Raft."

"What's that?" Bucky asked.

"Supermax prison," Natasha said. "Out in the middle of the ocean. Underwater. Specially designed to detain enhanced individuals. Maniacs. Terrorists. It's… not a nice place."

T'Challa glanced at a readout on his arm. "My jet will land on the far side of the facility in three minutes. I have room for five." His eyes crinkled in silent mirth. "Six if we squeeze."

Tony huffed a laugh. "Good planning, your highness."

"Thank you. I believe in being prepared."

"Ross is expecting us back in Berlin," Steve said. "We go missing, he's going to hold you responsible, Tony, you know that."

"I'll make my excuses. Say you guys ganged up on me." He spread his hands at Steve's disbelieving look. "What? I can't go up against you and Barnes together. Not to mention Wakanda's warrior king."

Sam cleared his throat.

"Don't give me that, Wilson. I could take you on any day."

"You wanna prove it? Here and now, tough guy. Bring it."

"I would, I'm sorry, but I've got an appointment in Berlin that I can't miss. Speaking of which, I need to get going."

Steve looked at T'Challa. "If you could take us as far the States, that would be fantastic. Drop us on the East Coast…?"

T'Challa slid an opaque glance at Tony and then looked back to Steve. "It would be an honour, Captain."

"Nat?" Tony asked.

Natasha grimaced. "This wasn't what I signed up for."

He nodded, looking resigned. "I thought you might say that."

"I do think we need, I don't know, supervision. But after Project Insight, the helicarriers… this is too close. Too invasive. Sorry. You can strike me off the list, tell them I'm retiring. Say Cap forced me to go with them, took me hostage, whatever."

"Well," said Bucky. He reached out to take Natasha, very gently, by the arm. "In that case. Come with us if you want to live."

"Tony." Steve hesitated. So much to say, so little time. Why did this feel like a slow tearing apart of everything they'd worked for? "Take care, okay?"

"Of myself? You betcha."

"Come here." Steve gripped his hand and pulled him for a quick hug. "If you ever need us — "

"I'll be in touch. Promise. I really do have to go, though. Like _now_."

"Right, right." He let Tony go and turned away. "We'll go out the side door. Out of the range of the sensors."

"Yeah. Good." Tony looked down. Took a breath through his nose. Smiled tightly. "I'll see you around." He turned and walked away.

When he was out of sight, Natasha shot T'Challa a sharp look. "You're not taking us to the States, are you?"

"If you wish me to, then certainly I shall. But." T'Challa tilted his head, looking down the hall where Tony had gone, and then continued. "On behalf on my nation, you are more than welcome to visit Wakanda. For as long as you need."

"Your isolationist policies — " Sam started.

"Our policies are changing. As a wise man once said: the wide world is all about you. You can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out."

"Tolkien," said Bucky unexpectedly. "The Lord of the Rings. 1954."

T'Challa smiled. "Yes. It is a good book."

Steve traded a look with Bucky. Read the confirmation there. Turned back to T'Challa. "Your highness, we would be honoured."

x

And when, five hours later, a power surge knocked out the lights and cameras in the Berlin Joint Counter Terrorism Centre, the man they knew as Doctor Theo Broussard could do nothing but lay his head back against the cold wall of his cell and laugh.

It was either that or cry.


End file.
